


Flotsam

by InterNutter



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 77,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortimer Toynbee, AKA Toad, thought he was as good as dead when the lightning hit him.</p>
<p>Then he woke up.</p>
<p>...and that was only the start of his troubles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Disclaimer: Marvel owns everything except this story and the original characters therein.

Flotsam  
InterNutter

Every fibre of his being cried out for him to move. Well, except for the bits that were crying out in pain, but that was secondary. He was used to pain. What he wanted to know now was; if he moved, was he in for *more* pain?  
He kept his body lax and his eyes closed, straining his other senses to find out as much as he could about his current predicament.  
Firm bed. Clean sheets. A pillow that smelled only subtly of previous abuses, but mostly of being washed. Beyond that, there were smells of new plaster and paint... a cacophany of makeup... not just the powders and paints, but some of the more extensive treatments. Latex. Glue. Solvent.  
An animal smell and a distant scurrying alerted him to the presence of a pet rodent. The animal in question was clean, but beyond that, he could tell little.  
Noise filtered in, now. Someone's TV... Survivor was on. A couple were arguing. A dog was barking. A baby started wailing. Someone, somewhere, was hammering on the radiator.  
Closer to, someone was humming. Cooking, judging by the smells. The old style of cooking that didn't pay very much heed to nutrition or low anything indices, but everything to quantity and taste.  
Mortimer almost moaned out loud. Having to lie there, dying to move, hurting like nothing else, and smelling those smells was torture.  
He risked opening his eye a crack.  
It was one of those cheap flats with supremely low rent and walls so thin that wrapping paper looked like 8-ply in comparison. The normally dilapidated walls had been patched and repaired. Painted over. The whole place had been - fixed.  
The hamster he'd heard earlier scurried through a neon tube... one of many that wound through the flat, between plaster hands and faces, bits of latex drying on string... and an exercise bike hooked up to a generator. Many candles indicated that this particular flat was one of the ones in a blackout zone.  
The space normally dominated by a television was inhabited by a construction that, because it also contained a keyboard and mouse, had to be a computer. The rest of it was an aggregation of just about every entertainment unit that was ever made. Improvised milk-crate shelving contained the media archives that made Mort wonder exactly what sort of maniac had him in their clutches.  
The maniac in question was by the kitchen. Or rather, the excuse for a kitchen that these cheap little flats always had. In this poky space, the tall and thin creature currently humming had created a modest feast.  
They began to turn. Mort focussed on looking asleep.  
"Good morning," said the maniac. "Technically."  
What? But his pretense was perfect.  
"I quite understand pretending to be asleep, you know. We hardly know each other. I might be some psychotically crazed lunatic for all you know. All I asked is that you keep in mind that I *did* haul you out of the Hudson, drag you up here, and take care of you right up to this moment. As an extra incentive, I do rather plan to look after you until   
you're back on your feet."  
Mort opened his eyes and glared at his captor.  
The sight of the person's face was not exactly the most reassuring, but then, he'd been woken up by Sabretooth. A bad case of hives and some peeling skin was a minor disturbance.  
"I made some soft food for you," said the maniac. "It'll be easier on your poor mouth. I made sure it's comforting-warm so you won't aggravate those burns."  
Mortimer tried to say, "What the bleedin' blazes are you talkin' about?" but all that came out was, "Wh't?" before the pain in his mouth and throat overwhelmed his desire to speak.  
The loony helped him sit up, pressing a warm bowl into his hands. "You had third-degree burns *inside* your mouth... and around it, too. It's almost like you were struck by lightning, given the way some of your accessories welded to each other. Except I've never seen lightning do what it did to you."  
He *was* struck by lightning. He remembered, now. That weather-witch... she was responsible.  
He should have died.  
He should have drowned.  
Except this peeling maniac had hauled him out of the water. "Why?" he rasped.  
"I have a singular sympathy for life's flotsam," said Flaky. "I did try to take you to a hospital, but they all exercised their right to refuse treatment to mutants."  
Flaky was lucky the food was good. Otherwise he would have made a run for it. As it was, Mort stiffened.  
"Relax. You and I, we're in the same boat." Flaky rolled up a sleeve, displaying that, underneath the flaps of skin, tiny scales in many shades of aqua were growing in. "Like I said. Life's flotsam."  
Okay. So he was in the hands of a *mutant* maniac. Fine. He couldn't even tell Flaky's gender. Working out whether or not they were on his side was going to take a bit longer.

~

A clock nearby chimed the hour, replete with a rendition of _Ach du Leiber Augustine_ in chintzy bells. He knew it. He recognized it... but the sound sounded... odd. As if he were hearing it with water in his ears. A similar thing had happened to his eyesight. It was as if he were looking through gauze.  
Mort felt his face to be sure. No. No gauze. There was a faint coating of silverzine on some of the remaining burns, but no gauze.  
Stupid bitch must've screwed up his senses when she hit him.  
_Look at it this way, Muggins. At least you have a sense of taste, still._  
_Yeah,_ said another inner self. _But how do we *know* that what we're eating is actually *good*?_  
Mort looked at the creature occupying the one chair in the entire flat. Flaky was eating its own cooking with every sign of enjoyment. It was enough proof for him.  
Hot - okay, comfortably warm - food in his stomach made him drowsy, but he sure as hell wasn't going to go to sleep with the resident loony just a few feet away. Getting up wasn't exactly an option, either. Waking up after a near death experience was exercise enough. Eating on his own seemed to have taxed his reserves.  
Between one blink and the next, Flaky was kneeling next to him. "Finished?"  
He made to stab it with his spoon.  
"Now, *really*," it chided. "Is that any way to behave? I haven't hurt you at all."  
_Right, cocky... and for all I know you're saving it up for later._  
"It's all right," Flaky soothed. "It's going to be okay. I have some silverzine for your burns and a saltwater rinse for your poor mouth, and then I'd like to tuck you back in. You're obviously tired."  
Mort made the mistake of blinking again. His spoon was gone and so was the last remnants of his food.  
Flaky was daubing silverzine on his face with a surprisingly soft touch. It was almost a loving caress... were it not for the patient, businesslike expression on the mutant's face.  
Close to, beyond the haze of his vision flaw, Flaky looked positively effeminate.  
"There," Flaky cooed. "Ready to rinse, now?" It offered a glass of   
warm water that smelled of salt.  
There was a bucket nearby. Conveniently nearby.  
Mort swigged, swished and gargled the revolting stuff, spitting accurately into the obvious receptacle. Ha. He hadn't lost *that* ability. He grinned.  
"A spittoon expert, I see," Flaky smiled. It wiggled like a female when it walked, but that was no true indicator. He knew from experience that some people were permanently in-between classical gender roles.  
Mort blinked again, and Flaky was tucking him in, making sure he was both comfortable and warm. Topping up the IV he hadn't even noticed until Flaky touched it, and checking the catheter bag.  
_Waitafuckinminute..._  
Mort realized with some alarm that he was next to naked in the home of a complete stranger.  
Flaky blushed. There were some interesting colours under the looser parts of its hives. "I know. Hideously forward of me, but... well... you were unconscious and you needed help. With everything. Um. I promise I'll restore your dignity, self-reliance and decency once you have the strength for it... but in the meantime, alas, needs must."  
Mort blinked. When he opened his eyes again, it was dark. Save for a single candle - one of those ones in a glass pot - left burning by the window.  
_Hello... Flaky's keeping vigil for someone..._  
He could, with a little effort, make out a shape underneath a coverlet in the next room. If there was any better time for sneaking through this loony mutant's stuff, he didn't know when it was.  
That is, until he tried to get up.  
Mort lay back in the second-hand pillow and watched the sparkles fade from his vision. Okay. Now he knew better, and he knew that Flaky meant it when it said he had to get his strength back.  
The better time for espionage was next week, sometime.  
In the meanwhile, he needed his rest.

~

His fogged senses allerted him to someone moving around. Once again, his instincts - honed through pain - made him feign sleep and take in whatever cues were availlable.  
It was the furtive noise of someone trying to be quiet and busy at the same time. Mort opened his eyes a flicker. That tall figure in the fog-shrouded dark was none other than Flaky, his loony host.  
He drifted back into sleep.  
At least until the singing started.  
It was still quiet, the tremulous warbling of someone singing just loud enough for music to come out.  
"Good morning starshine..."  
Mort checked, moving just enough to be able to see his captor.  
Okay. Flaky liked dancing naked in the dawn's early light. Its one concession to the coming winter was that it - no, *she* - danced behind the safety of the glass doors that lead to the pocket balcony.  
Flaky was most definitely female.  
And younger than she acted.  
The joints were a dead give-away. She'd yet to grow into them, so they stood out against the rest of her.  
Amazing to think that Flaky had yet to reach her full height.  
Mort rolled over and evened his breathing before Flaky finished her early morning peep show. If he was lucky, he'd fall back into slumberland and Flaky would never be any the wiser.  
"I know you're awake," said Flaky. The soft noises of a robe being put on barely filtered through Mort's foggy senses. "All I want to know is whether you saw anything, and if it was accident or design."  
Mort opened his eyes. Damnit. How the flying fuck did she *do* that? Was she some kind of--  
"I'm not a telepath," she said, despite evidence to the contrary. "I've spent a large number of hours watching you sleep. You mutter."  
News to *him*. Besides, how could he mutter anything with his throat the way it felt.  
"Well, it's more of a whisper, at the moment," Flaky qualified. "When you're pretending to be asleep, your lips stop moving. Don't get me wrong, anyone else would be marvellously fooled. I just -uh- pick up on the details."  
Okay, so he was in the hands of a highly-observant, nudist, mutant, loony samaritain-wannabe. Flaky was packing on the adjectives, and he'd only known her a day.  
Mort made an effort, propping himself up on one arm. Mutant healing factors were all very well, but pain was pain the world over. After the flashes subsided and he had his breath back, he rasped, "Acc'd'nt."  
It hurt a little less, this time. Thank whatever God was around that took pity on him.  
Flaky was bustling around the kitchen, putting this and that together. "Ah. So I can trust that it won't happen tomorrow by design?"  
Mort managed a nod, still trying to figure out how to sit up without too much strain. He wanted to say, _I'm not in the habit of perving on underage girls, love,_ but his injured throat would barely let two words out without threatening a coughing fit or worse.  
Flaky paused in her bustling to bring over a white tablet, a marker and a duster. "Here. This should help save your vocal chords." A few long strides and she was back in the kitchen. "Terribly sorry, but I kept getting distracted, earlier. My mind's all over the place at the best of times."  
The scent of cooking cinnamon assaulted him, making him spend a great effort not to drool on his writing.  
First things first. _Who ARE you?_  
"Sara Louise Adrien, swimming in come-uppance," she said. "I got thrown out of my last school, so Mother had enough of me and the rash..." she rubbed her arm over her sleeve. "It lead to an unpleasant discovery. I'm sure you can guess what *that* was."  
An active X-gene, for sure. He hadn't needed any medical tests. A kid with green skin and webbed hands and feet was either a mutant or a freak. Either way, his real parents hadn't exactly cared, and fobbed him off to the nearest hell-hole orphanage they could find.  
"So, of course, Mother disowned me," Sara continued. "She refused to let me back in the home until I stopped, and I quote, 'all this mutant nonsense'... and now I'm legally emancipated, taking correspondance school, and trying to make ends meet. Precisely what I deserve, as Mother would say."  
He wrote, _Name's Mortimer,_ and after a pause, added, _Toynbee._  
"Well, Mortimer Toynbee, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," she smiled, warm and genuine. "Do you prefer Mort?"  
He nodded, eager. Far too eager. The last time he felt like this... he'd been saved by his mentor, Magneto. And it all ended in flotsam. He had to stop himself feeling *glad* to receive a smile.  
But right now, it was too much work.  
"Mort," she said, making him feel warm and welcome. "Would you like to make an attempt on the waffles, or would you prefer to surrender at scrambled eggs?"  
_Never surrender!_ he wrote. He could chew and, if necessary, use his slime to make sure things eased down. It eliminated taste, for the most part, but considering some of his 'meals', that was a mercy.  
"Gung ho," Sara chirped. "I must be doing something right. For a change."  
He watched her bend over her implements. _She's underage. Don't even think about it,_ he reminded himself. Hell, the last time he'd been with a woman, Magneto had paid exorbitantly for her time.  
It just re-enforced the message that nobody would volunteer.  
And yet...  
This woman - this *girl* - had no fear in her eyes when she looked at him. No disgust. She'd seen him naked - the catheter bag was a clear indicator - and she still kept him in her home.  
_She's still a loony,_ he argued. _For all I know she thinks I'm from mars._  
Waffles with a side of scrambled eggs arrived on a plastic tray. Sara took hers and the one chair to the computer to work one-handed on something mysterious as the other one fed her.  
Ambidexterous, and completely unaware.  
The hamster ran through the tubes to a platform by the monitor.  
"No, Chuckie. The vet said you're not allowed sweet treats. Have a bran thingie." Long fingers pushed a brownish oblong into the hamster's presence.  
Chuckie sniffed it, nibbled, and decided it was good enough to carry away.  
Sara chuckled. "Oh *dear*... more hate mail from the anti-mutant faction. And I quote, 'God luvs me coz I haet muteez adn God haets U'... charmant... I feel a Strong Bad moment coming on." Click. "Deleted!"  
Her whole voice had changed with the last word.  
What the flying *fuck*?  
Sara noticed his confusion. "You don't look like you spend a lot of time online. Strong Bad's this character from an ongoing flashtoon site." As she spoke, she brought up a window. "He answers email from mostly real people."  
Mort watched the animation with growing perplexity... and then amusement. Finally, he laughed until his throat complained and almost made him choke.  
Sara was there in an instant, offering the saltwater gargle. She showed real concern. Real worry.  
Loony or not, she *cared*.  
He reached out, impulsively, to touch her cheek. The parts where her skin was still alive were warm and smooth. Even the dry, dead skin covering the scales was not an unwelcome sensation.  
"Mort?" she said.  
She didn't resist when he pulled her closer. Didn't flinch when he kissed her brow.  
He wanted her lips... craved them... but she was underage. Off limits.  
When he let her go, she sat dumbfounded on the floor, touching the memory of that kiss.  
"What was that for?" she asked.  
_You cared,_ he wrote.

~

It was clearly evident that Sara had forgotten that she hadn't got dressed yet. One bare leg slid from the flannel folds of the robe as Sara's fingers hovered over the memory of his kiss.  
One eyelid fluttered, causing the cheek muscle to twitch. Then her whole head *jerked* to the side.  
Her upraised hand curled slowly in on itself and lowered to her lap.  
"Oh... d-d-da-d-d-da-d-arn..." a shoulder took up the flailing as she struggled to her feet. "P-p-p-lease exc-c-c-use mmm-e..."  
What in the blue bloody blazes?  
No kiss in the history of humankind had done *this* to a person.  
Maybe it was him.  
He watched in anguished confusion as his saviour made her twitching way to the only other room in the flat, and vanished behind the door.  
Mort wanted to get up. He wanted to rush to her side. Offer what help he could, or at least a punching bag for being so fucking stupid.  
Bedsprings creaked in the next room. Garbled half-words and ugly noises of pain slithered out of her room and into his ears.  
And all he could do, with some effort, was observe the toes of one foot through the gap... in a mirror on the closet.  
_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry..._ Mort curled in on himself as Sara's noises subsided. An old, old remnant of the orphanages.  
When things got too much, he'd curl in on himself and try to vanish into the wainscotting by sheer force of will.  
And the only thing he could control was his breathing, because if his eyes leaked, he was as good as dead...  
And then she was there. Beside him. Comforting. Touching.  
Touching *him*. Voluntarily.  
He looked up out of his huddle. She was dressed and groomed. Mostly groomed - little could be done about the affliction invading her face. "There, now," she cooed. "See? All over. Nothing to fret about, dear. It's just... something that happens. You weren't the cause, I promise." Her gentle hands invaded, soothed the moisture from his eyes without comment, straightened him out of his curl by careful pressure. Guided him into her robe and helped him cover up.  
He could smell her on the garment. Warm, clean woman and a faint hint of lilac.  
He went sort of numb, after that, just letting Sara check his IV, change his catheter bag and discuss a trip to the bathroom as if it were the first excursion of a housebound, yet recovering invalid.  
She brushed his hair.  
Mort remembered actually finding a pre-Disney version of _Peter Pan and Wendy_ in one of his many quests for isolation in the orphanage's attic. The dusty volume had been his friend for days, taking him away into a strange world where fairies were real and you could fly if you had a happy thought. What he remembered most was thinking it was ridiculous for grown men to want a slip of a girl like Wendy for a mother.  
Now it wasn't that ridiculous at all.

~

It was a long trip from his matress on the floor to the bathroom. One that left him surprisingly winded.  
A trip that gave him a long time to think.  
_You're gettin' confused, Morty,_ he told himself. _We never had a Mum. Magneto was never our Dad... much as we wished it._  
He remembered being a starving kid, filching the keys from the wrong man's pocket... and meeting the man who both saved him and doomed him at the same time.  
Saved him from starving on the streets.  
Doomed him to determined subservience in gratitude.  
_We're old enough to be her *father*. Assumin' we'd find someone willing to breed with us._  
He remembered the initial comfort. The subjective luxury. He remembered weeping into the man's arms, so *thankful* for the care and attention he'd never had, before.  
_And we're thinking of ourselves in plural again. Dangerous sign, laddy-o. We're one person. One. Mortimer Toynbee. We are Mort._  
Sara arranged him on the commode with the professionalism of a nurse and the warm companionship that lead Mort's thoughts towards increasingly wrong paths.  
Lucky for him the flesh was weak.  
"And here's a bell, if you need me to help you stand, again. It's a nice, loud one. Once we're certain that you can get up and down all right, I'll take the catheter out for you," Sara was prattling. "You have to go every couple of hours until you feel used to yourself again. You can see why I want to make certain of things. I'll be online in the next room if you need anything. Okay?"  
Mort nodded.  
Another warm smile. She lit up when she smiled. Sara backed out and almost-closed the door. Giving him privacy.  
The last time he'd needed medical care, Magneto had been - cold. There was no privacy. Just the invasion of what his body needed... and nothing for his mind and heart.  
No comfort.  
Was there a motive behind this succour she gave him? Did she want a grateful subservient to do *her* bidding?  
Was he, in short, about to be used again?  
There was only one way to find out... but would he be able to monitor the situation, whilst also being in it up to his eyebrows?  
He hadn't been able to, last time.

~

Mort blinked. Judging by the chiming of the clock, he'd 'missed' half an hour. There was hot chocolate and a warm coat over clothes - proper clothes!  
He sipped. Still near-scalding and almost too sweet.  
"Ah, you're back," noted Sara. "Though barely, I think. You went a little... automatic, for a while there. I was worried."  
She was *worried*? About ugly, toady Mort?  
"But then again, I can see why you didn't want to be at home, as it were. Best not to delve into unpleasant things, eh? It's better forgotten... than haunting one." She sighed. "Wish I had that knack."  
He found the marker and the small whiteboard. _It's a curse as well, luv,_ he wrote.  
Since he was on the only chair, Sara half-leaned, half-sat on the table. She sipped at her own mug. "I suppose all blessings carry a curse. The gift of having a phenominal memory... has the curse of having a phenominal memory. Being able to willingly forget... it must be annoying, afterwards. Trying to figure out if you *should* remember or not."  
Just like that, she'd nailed it. He scrubbed out his previous message and wrote, _You sure you're not a telepath?_  
"Positive. There's no more room in here--" a tap to her temple "--for anyone but me and my psychoses. Promise. It's just that you have a very animated face... and your body language is more than eloquent."  
A deeper chill. She wasn't reading his thoughts. She was reading *him*. What sort of nutcase was he staying with? What did she want him for?  
Sara was taking deeper swallows of her drink, almost like she *needed* it, but was too refined to gulp. "Trying to figure me out again? Look around, dear. Does it seem to you that I would posess the resources for a darstardly plan?"  
Once again, the sparsity of the little flat made itself known. One chair. One table that had obviously had a rough life. Improvized shelving and storage. The objects that were out in the open were either handmade or extremely cheap.  
This kid was dangling on the end of the poverty line.  
Mort shook his head.  
"Good," Sara announced. "Now, perhaps, you can work on the idea that I did this out of the goodness of my own heart?"  
Mort shrunk in on himself... but carefully, since his body ached.  
"Oh, it's all right. I'm not mad."  
Something flickered into his peripheral vision. He flinched.  
Sara's gentle hand eased down his cheek. "You've been in a very bad place. It's only natural to suspect what you're not used to. Something we have in common."  
Which lead to the question... what was she un-used to, that she suspected?

~

Mort watched. He was good at watching. It had helped his survival and most of his education to learn by observation rather than by tutor.  
Sooner or later, he would get his answers.  
Sara's skin rash - due to the spreading growth of her new scales - was routinely concealed when she journeyed outside the apartment building for her numerous job interviews, and on one occasion when the CPS inspector came by to see how she was doing.  
The crisp woman raised an eyebrow at Mort, but accepted the explanation that he was someone in need that Sara had elected to help.  
The girl's words remained in his head. "There have to be good samaritains," she'd said. "If we don't help somebody, how can we be sure that somebody won't help us?"  
The illogic was impeccable, Mort knew, but he also knew that there were many who took and very, very few who gave in return.  
Inspection passed, including the repeated importance of finding permanent employment - or at least long-term - and the crisp woman went away to inspect others.  
Alas, long-term employment was hard to come by. Sara juggled part-time temp-work, babysitting for fellow denizens of the building, shopping and dog-walking. Sometimes, she'd gain a commission from somewhere, but most of the time, she was doing things for other people for fairly low benefits - or managing several small web-based companies.  
Anyone else wouldn't have had the hours in the day to manage. Sara fit it all in by apparently being awake longer than anyone else on the planet. She only needed a small collection of hours on his ex-mattress - she'd given him her bedroom in deference to his infirmity - and she was back to her permanently energetic self.  
In daylight hours, the mattress made an impromptu couch for the both of them and any small visitors who also spent their time there.  
Meals - such as they were - were filling fare that warmed body and heart without paying very much attention to a properly balanced diet. Most of them were heavy on the calories when they weren't brimming with protein.  
And through the passing weeks - during which Mort became more of a help in this tiny world - no disaster large or small ever phased her. Sara was automatically prepared for doom. She expected the dire and prepared for it with an almost eerie prescience.  
But when he kissed her... when he flirted or managed to rasp a compliment out of his burned and blistered throat... she would twitch. Her peculiar little seizures would begin and - if he persisted in showing concern, care, or a natural desire to embrace her until it went away - they would have to be ridden out in seclusion.  
The longest time he spent tying his guts in knots over those seizures was fifteen minutes.  
Then it came to him in the cold of night.

She wasn't used to being loved.

That singular epiphany held him sleepless until dawn brought her little song through the walls to his ears.  
Knowing what she was doing out there... was only a slightly worse torture. To think. Once, he'd wished to God that he could find someone just like him.  
_I take it back. I take it all back._  
Nobody deserved that much pain.

~

He'd reached the grand maximum of being able to speak three words in a row when Mort decided to riffle through Sara's things while she was out. It wasn't an invasion of privacy... Not exactly.  
It was investigative... wossname. Investigating. Yeah.  
He already had access to her room, so he started there. Practical cotton undergarments. No lace. No naughty implications. No expectations of finding a mate who would appreciate any effort in the unwrapping department.  
_I *really* take it back..._  
The kid had more T-shirts than she had underthings. Most of them pledged allegiance to some fandom or another. Weird critters abounded on each and every one. There were a sparse few that would pass for a job interview.  
The closet held three dresses in anti-dust shrouds and an eye-boggling stack of boxes. Surprise, surprise, they contained T-shirts. An assortment of sizes. All blank.  
There were photo albums under the bed. Snapshots of informal moments that were the antithesis of the studio photographs containing herself and a much older man who Mort presumed to be the girl's father. Or the completely seperate portraits of a smiling woman who much resembled Sara as well. When he reached the third framed portrait, Mort noticed the glaring error.  
Sara and her mother were never in the same frame, despite the fact that both her parents were still alive.  
The snapshots now had a bigger meaning. They were, he realised, the shots that didn't make it into the *better* albums, the ones that were offered to guests.  
The ones placed in the front were those of Sara and her mother.  
Treasured, rare moments. Captured and rejected.  
Flotsam.  
Sara's treasures were kept safe in hidden corners. Kept away from everything else by one barrier or another. The rest... was stuff that ultimately didn't matter because it was cheap scrattle.  
A thief desperate enough to break Sara's locks would find a bare apartment and a lot of debris before they discovered anything of significant value... like the jewellery box concealed in the far back of the bottom drawer of her dresser. One of those little chintzy ones that eight-year-old girls favoured.  
And just like the girl who owned it, appearances told exactly nothing of the story inside.  
_Maybe I ought to find out where her old bird lives and rip the bitch off,_ he thought. He didn't even consider hocking Sara's little valuables. He owed her that much, at the very least.  
All of her jewellery was finely-made. Expensive make, without being brash about it. This was bought with old money. So relaxed about its decoration that it didn't *have* to brag.  
He put the box back exactly where it came from. He didn't even touch the letters that were reverentially saved nearby.  
Which left, in this sanctuary from the outside, the hope chest.  
It had been decorated by a much younger Sara, embellished with unicorns, My Little Pony portraits, fairies, elves and dragons. The words "Hope Chest" were professionally lettered on the top.  
An older Sara had written the word "Lost" above those words in some kind of marker.  
If anything was going to tell him about the inner workings of Sara's mind, it was the contents of this box.  
Mort picked the lock anyway.  
Top layer, ribbons from beauty pageants... junior beauty pageants. Kept on the top so that the ruffles wouldn't be damaged by the weight of other objects. These, too, were the edits. Second places. Third places. Most Winning Smile.  
Underneath these was a trophy - Best Effort - and a studio portrait. All three Adriens together. The two ladies wearing false smiles. The younger's eyes were tinged with sorrow and fear. The older's - pure venom.  
Sara was six.  
Mort knew that this was the last portrait that Sara's little family had shared together.  
There were books, next. Chronologically arranged in bundles. The earliest ones were diary entries and, judging by the dates, young Sara had been a precocious prodigy. Some of her entries at age four were book critiques.  
It was when she turned five that trouble started entering the picture. There were detailed analyses of the competitors, the competitors acts, their scores and their totals... plans for costumes, outfits, and acts that should have blown the judges out of the water.  
And again and again, entries about Sandra Lee Merriweather. According to the pictures, she was a bubbly little blonde with ringlets and a cuteness factor fit to rival Shirley Temple. She could tapdance.  
So, evidently, could Sara.  
Mort found the entries for Sara's final competition. Sara was alarmingly cute in a pseudo-military outfit - replete with a swagger stick - and had evidently sung the entirety of _A Modern Major General_ in full patter mode.  
The total scores reasoned that Sara should have won, yet Sandra Lee had beat her hands down.  
The very next page was full of one word. "Why?"  
_Because she was cuter than you, pet,_ reasoned Mort. _You were gangly and she was petite. That's all there was to it. You'd lost before you started._ Poor girl.  
More pages obsessed about Sandra Lee. A full bio. Classes taken. Grades achieved. Beauty secrets.  
Sara had even attempted to go blonde. *That* had been a resounding failure, judging by the picture of Sara with bleached hair. She looked like some kind of forlorn creature from an underground civilisation. Sara with bleached hair and a fake tan looked even worse. A lesson underscored with the words, "Artifice is not our friend".  
Sara had tried to defeat or equal Sandra, and broken her heart in the effort. People forgave Sandra identical flaws to Sara because the former was so much more... huggable.  
Somewhere in the middle of it, Sara attempted to be smarter than Sandra. Again, the precociousness blossomed, and young Sara far overtook her lessons.  
She was doing high school problems in the elementary grades... and told by various teachers that she needn't worry about such things.  
Later books were encoded, to increasing degrees of complexity. The images embedded in the increasingly microscopic texts were awesome. Fibonnacci numbers inside a daisy. A spiral galaxy. The solar system expressed as atoms.  
He put everything back the way he'd found it and re-locked the chest.  
Lost hope, indeed.  
Could he give it back to her?  
Could he even try?

~

He started simple, with an emailed request for the correspondance course catalogue for the next year. Such an item turning up in Sara's mailbox would hardly raise suspicion.  
Step two was harder.  
He had to get his hands on some dosh.  
Mort's old clothing - preserved in a box for unknown reasons - had bought the big one after the lightning hit and being soaked in both harbour and Hudson. His useful little gizmos, things that could have made nefarious work a lot easier, were welded together in an interesting lump.  
It made an interesting paperweight/letter spike, but beyond that... dross.  
Which left the old avenues of picking pockets and small-time hustles.  
And wouldn't you know it? There wasn't a pack of cards in the entire flat. He briefly considered sleight-of-hand with the hamster as a way of gathering pennies... except the creature was agorophobic and he'd probably traumatise it.  
_Bugger._  
Getting people to give him money to go away had worked when he was a smelly street urchin. He doubted it'd work now that he was a regularly-cleaned adult. People were more likely to hit adults than kids, even mutie kids. Trying that trick now would likely get him lynched.  
The knock on the door scattered his thoughts to the four winds.  
Moments like this always had him panicked. His mind generated horrors from subtle - some kind of legal eagle - to gross - a mob after his and Sara's mutie hide.  
No-one immediately visible through the spy-hole.  
"Who'zit?" he rasped.  
"Baby-sits," said a youthful voice.  
Mort let the kids in. Only one of them was over four, and that by a few days.  
"Where's Sara?" enquired the eldest. A kid with a checkerboard haircut.  
"Out," Mort managed. "She showed me..." a pause to swallow some lubricating slime, "...'ow t' put toons..." another swallow, "...on."  
"Croaky man," announced a little sprite who couldn't be more than two. "Croaky man!"  
"Mort," he croaked. God. He even sounded like a bloody toad. _Lessee... crank this up and click *that*, then go there and... voila. The latest in educational TV. With some _Hamtaro_ and _Teen Titans_ thrown in._ He grinned at his accomplishment. Computers weren't all that much trouble once you knew what did what. "You lot want... sarnies?"  
"Sara makes us PBJs," said the four-year-old.  
"Righ'," he said. _Americans... gah._ Only the yanks would consider putting peanut butter and jam on the same piece of bread and then *eating* it. Not saying that it wasn't a taste thrill... or that he didn't like them... it was just that the concept was vaguely disgusting.  
"Wozza sarnie?" asked the sprite's twin brother, who'd followed him.  
"Sandwich," Mort rasped, gesturing with the bread. "Go watch TV."  
"Okeh."  
At least this lot were easy to handle. And not a one of them made a comment on his appearance.  
But then, these were all kids who interacted with televised muppet-monsters on a daily basis. For all he knew, they thought he was some kind of learn-to-read critter that just didn't talk a lot, right now.  
They'd learn intolerance soon enough. Possibly when their panicky parents yanked them from his arms in screaming terror.

~

 

The screaming terror was a long time in coming. Older, school-aged kids practically let themselves in and almost ignored him.  
"Wot, no 'allo?"  
An older kid, plausibly the sprite's older sister, shrugged. "You're Sara's friend. Sara does all the talking."  
That was true. Mort nodded. "Me thoat's bung," he gravelled.  
The older sister set up her books on a handy patch of floor. "You know, if you play _Snoochie Bears_, the little kid's'll fall asleep and we can get our homework done in the quiet."  
"You are *so* dead, Jackie," said one of the others.  
"You got 'omework," said Mort, "you do it." He'd liked homework. Nobody was allowed to *bother* him when he was doing homework. He queued up some episodes of the Snoochie Bears on Sara's computer. "Keeps th' grey matter... workin' righ'."  
Moans from most, but not Jackie. She just set to it like a pro.  
"Gunna think yer... way out?"  
Jackie nodded, pencil moving.  
"Good onyer." He'd tried, at one stage, to learn his way out of the abyss he was in. Unfortunately for him, constant abuse from his peers had made him - errattic... when shut in a whole room full of contemporaries. "Get to th' top. Sucks at th' bottom."  
The homework and Jackie-hater glared at his new clothes. "Like *you'd* know."  
"When I can... talk better, boyo... I'll tell yer... stuff'll turn yer... hair white." He needed a drink after that, and soothed his throat with water. "Trust me. I know."

~

It was getting late. Mort was starting to get worried about Sara's job interview... or current place of employment... or wherever she'd gone, today.  
Had something gone wrong?  
Had someone happened to her?  
The younger children had slid into unconsciousness in a quasi-incestuous heap on the mattress. Even the older kids were yawning and pondering where to fit themselves for something passing as a nap.  
The full rendition of _Ach Du Leiber Augustine_ chimed through the flat. It had gone nine.  
Seized by a moment of illogic, Mort bought out a spare candle and lit it from Sara's vigil light. _Come back,_ he thought. _Don't abandon us. We couldn't cope if you abandoned us._ He leaned against the door, peeking down at what he could see of the street.  
What was he going to *do*?  
What *could* he do?  
A knock at the door made him yelp, then dodge over the rugrats to get it. The candle had worked! *Sara* was home!  
The woman at the door wasn't Sara. On the upside, she wasn't the police, either. She appeared to be tired and just a little strung out from stress. "Oh! You're Sara's friend."  
"Mort," he croaked. "Can't talk much."  
"I remember Sara saying something about a lightning strike?"  
"'S me. Most th' kids... asleep." He gestured at the slowly growing tangle of slumbering children. "Guess y' know... yours."  
"Is Sara...?"  
"Went out," he said. "Ain't come back."  
The woman came in, gently shaking some older children and scooping up some younger ones. "Proving herself again, probably. She wouldn't have done that if she didn't trust you, you know. Girl's the most punctual creature I ever did meet. Sticks to a schedule better'n glue. Does your people a credit."  
"Whites?" Mort hedged.  
"No, silly. Mutants."  
Mort froze. His heart, he swore, stopped. She'd call the police on him. She'd get her angry spouse/lover to beat him into a pulp. She'd find a way to poison them...  
"Of course I know," said the woman. "I'm not college educated, but I'm smart enough to know the signs. Poor girl's gonna go through hell when she can't... pass..."  
Mort followed her gaze. Sara was just coming in the open door. All fear and trepidation... and shame. Her long fingers were spread across parts of her face. Some of her clothing - job interview gear - was in disarray.  
_OmiGod, did someone rape her?_ "Sara?"  
"Just a minor skirmish," she rasped. Her voice was raw. "Hideous timing on my part. My face fell off." Sara let go, and flaps of skin fell away to reveal beautiful aqua scales. "So much for cheating on my latex budget..."  
Mort automatically put the kettle on, readying her 'undertow' mug for the hot chocolate he knew she desperately needed. He turfed a blinky lad out onto the mattress so she could sit on the chair. "You okay?"  
Her hands fiddled with the flaps, trying to piece her old face back together. "It was a good interview," she said. "I was doing so very well..."

"Well, strictly between you, me, and the gatepost, I'm running several small businesses online already. I'm familliar with most web programming languages, Microsoft office software, photoshop, some computer animation programs..."  
"Stop... stop," said Ms Herbig. "You'll over-qualify yourself."  
"I like to think of it as techno-JOATing," said Sara. "I'm capable for the job. Practically any job."  
"Do you have any... flaws? Any little quirks that might - youknow - make things a little difficult?"  
"I can obsess very easily," said Sara. "If the problem's intriguing enough, I won't put it down. On the opposite end of the scale, I'm easily distracted when I'm bored... I try to ameliorate that by working several projects at once... and then I get bogged down in projects."  
"Just... how many projects can you handle at once?"  
"Assuming least-complexity for each... somewhere around... thirty..." Sara blushed. "I'd have to get back to you with the exact figure."  
A bell rang. A single chime that made the entire warren of cubicles stand up in unison. Including that odd blonde girl who struck Sara as being very subtly *wrong* somehow.  
"Lunch hour," said Ms Herbig. "There's a nice restaurant just around the corner, I'd *love* to find out more about you Miss Essel."  
"Miss *Adrien*... I get that a lot."  
Ms Herbig gave her a blank look.  
"Sara Louise? S, L?"  
There was the usual clucking embaressment, and a small amount of furforal over pre-meal payment arrangements as they followed the generic exodus into the building's lobby...  
And then fate played its trump card.  
A tiny attatchment of skin on the bridge of her nose gave way, forcing the burden of weight onto the piece it was glued to.  
Bit by bit, her face fell off.  
Ms Herbig screamed.  
The entire office staff turned to stare...

"...and that's when the riot started." Sara sipped her drink. "It was all I could do to get out of there alive. It's probably on the news..."  
"Don't watch," said Mort. "Bloody depressin'."  
Tears fell at last. "What am I going to *do*? That was almost regular employment..."  
"Just be who you are," said the mother, sleeping child still draped across one shoulder. "My people used to try and hide, those of us who were pale enough to pass... it rarely worked. And when it failed..." she sighed. "Well. It failed all over the scenery."  
Sara raked her fingers through her hair, incidentally dislodging a swath of loose skin and pulling her tresses into a peculiar shape. "I certainly did *that*, didn't I?" A bitter laugh. "I need to see the news. I need to see the news, please..."  
Maybe it was because she said 'please'. Mort couldn't help it. He turned on the news and settled back on his haunches as CNN started the story all over again.  
It didn't help that the Media called it, "Terror in the City".  
"I'm lucky to escape with my life," said Ms Herbig to a reporter. "It was right *next* to me. I actually shook *hands* with a *mutie*..."  
They even had security camera footage of the event.  
"Oh, sod... I look hideous."  
Mort was next to her in a second, gently prising her fingers away from dead skin and easing her old exterior away. "Never," he said. "You're beautiful."  
"I'll be back in a few," said the mother. "These little ones need their bed."  
Sara was staring blankly at the screen, shivering slightly as she sipped her drink. "They're blaming it all on me. One mutant plus one mob equals forty-two injured and one scapegoat."  
"Two scapegoats," said Mort. "Ain't leavin' ya. We can be... a conspiracy."  
Sara laughed, and then cried into his shoulder.  
Whatever happened next, he'd never leave. No matter what.

~

What happened next was a small flurry of organisation by the rest of the flat. Children were ferried gently into neighbours' places. Just so that the authorities wouldn't be confused by the presence of minors when they came.  
The initial mother, Mrs Jones, returned to help Mort treat Sara for shock and to write a statement just in time for the knocks on her door.  
"NYPD! Open up!"  
"Rats," muttered Sara. "And I was betting on the social worker. At least Ms Garvallo knows about... youknow. Intellectually, anyway."  
Mrs Jones opened the door. "Can I help you?"  
"We have information that a Sara Adrien lives here," said the male of the duo. "Can we come in?"  
Mrs Jones blocked egress. "Long as you don't have no arrest warrants. That poor girl ain't done nuthin' wrong."  
"We just want to talk to her," soothed the female.  
Jones muttered, "Mm-*hm*," as only a black woman can and stepped aside.  
Mort froze in the act of tucking his coat around Sara. Had he ever been identified as a Liberty Islant Mutant Terrorist? No. They'd have arrested him in the hospital - *hospitals* - that Sara had initially visited.  
Sara was trying to put her face back together without much success. "...terribly sorry about the mess," she murmured. "...i'm such a mess... not really presentable..."  
The male exchanged a Look with his partner. "We've seen worse," he offered. "It's fine. You're apartment's very... economical."  
"...necessity rather than intent... just the essentials..."  
The female watched the hamster scurry through his tubing. "You keep a hamster?"  
"He's called 'Chucky'," grated Mort. "She's got baby... albums of 'im."  
"...i could fetch them easily..."  
"You stay put," said Jones, forcing her back down with one hand. "I'm sure the police are too busy for that."  
The female was the one with the curious fingers. She found the legal pad and Sara's writing. "You wrote a statement?"  
"...practice... so i wouldn't forget anything." Sara daintily gulped the last of her drink down. "...got to get it down fresh..."  
Mort got to brewing her another cuppa while the police interrogated her. The male of the duo had an amazing ability to find trivial questions, and even seemed surprised that Jones trusted a mutant with her children.  
"Half the building trusts her with their kids," said Mrs Jones. "Sara's reliable."  
"...i don't unhinge my jaw..." Sara mumbled. "...not built that way..."  
"Okay..." drawled the female. "Not that we were going to *ask*."  
Mort gave Sara her third hot, sweet drink for the evening.  
"...thank you, dear..."  
The male zeroed in on Mort. "And what's your relationship with Miss Adrien?"  
Mort thought about it. "Grateful patient."  
"Patient?"  
"Got 'it by... lightnin'," he said. "Fell inna river. Still gettin' bettah."  
"...they wouldn't take him in the hospitals," said Sara. "I tried and tried."  
The sticky-fingered female had found Sara's fold-out wallet of ID. "Says here you're sixteen. Awful young to be living with a man."  
"I'm just 'angin'," said Mort. "Nowhere else t' go."  
"Mister Toynbee has kept his intentions more than honourable," said Sara. "Nothing more than a kiss... never on the lips. Only touches socially acceptable flesh. He's no pervert."  
"Thanks, luv," he smirked, tipping an imaginary hat.  
"That's an awful lot of ID," said the male. "You really belong to these organisations?"  
"I keep busy," said Sara.  
The female looked at the day planner. "Says here you're interview was shortly before lunch... how long ago did you come in?"  
_Ach du leiber Augustine..._ went the clock. Quarter past. "A little under fifteen minutes, I believe. Why?"  
"What were you doing for all that time?"  
"Running from angry people," she said. "The city's very angry with... *us*, I suppose. Wave a mutie at a crowd and they start throwing rocks."  
"Did you hurt anyone?" said the female.  
"No. I'd never hurt anybody... I... I don't believe violence solves anything."  
"So..." drawled the male. "You live in New York and you don't own a gun?"  
"That seems strange to you? I have little worth stealing, sir. Almost no money. Very few things to protect. I'm small fish. Used to be."  
The male of the duo pulled his partner aside. Mort's ears managed to pick up the low muttering. "Not exactly my top ten in America's Most Wanted," he said. "She doesn't have the demeanor of a dangerous personality at all. She's even - honest."  
"There's still forty-two people in hospital," whispered the female.  
"Most of which were trampled in the mob by the rest of the mob. Our girl here just *ran*. We get her statement, we prevent the media from releasing her address, we do the forensics and prove her innocent. End of story."  
"That's not going to sit well with the boss. She's a *mutie*."  
"Just doing our job. Looking at what's there," murmured the male. "And what's there is some kid who's just trying to get along."  
The female glared at both him and Sara. "Fine. But if the background check turns up anything untoward, we're bringing her in."  
"She's a sixteen-year-old doormat," said the male. "What could she *do*?"

~

 

Goren was sorting the credible witness reports from the outlandish when the Australian Exchange Officer turned up at his desk.  
"Got'cher girl's permanent record," said Spence[1]. "Volumes A to K..." {WHUMP} "and L to Zed."[2] {WHUMP}  
"Nobody gets that joke in New York," said Eames.  
"I get it," said Goren. He was smirking at the two enormous folders. "Thanks."  
"No worries," said Spence. "Needed t' do some weightlifting." He flipped his hand somewhere in the vicinity of an absent salute and returned to *his* paperwork.  
"Times like this, I wonder how Stabler is handling Canberra[3]," said Eames. She took a folder.  
Goren examined the other one. "After he gets over the tall poppy syndrome, he should be fine..." he whistled as he flipped through the pages.  
"So much for your doormat theory," said Eames. "This one school has twenty counts of fighting inside two weeks."  
"Was she treated for hand injuries?"  
"No... face, ribs, some soft tissue damage... a fractured rib or two... That just means she's *bad* at picking fights."  
"Or the fights pick her and the aggressor gets away." He flipped through some more pages, skimming through the contents. "Though she *did* pick a fight *here*..." he shared the images of two girls, one much older than the other... and the elder of the two had come off worse. "Settled out of court years ago. Injuries versus mental anguish. Interesting that Sara's testimony's been *censored*..." He held the page up to the light. "And not because she swears."  
"Ice capades in *July*?" said Eames. "This girl is dangerously insane."  
Goren went through more of his folder. "I think it's worse than that. She's *smart*... too smart for her own good."  
"Are you kidding? She's violent! Unstable. Her last school threw her out for *moral* reasons."  
"I wonder what moral reasons those were..." said Goren. "She's certainly been sliding down the quality scale since age eight. Look at this... she starts at Lady Favisham's - very high-ticket finishing school, and goes steadily downhill until she's stuck in Carol Danvers High[4]."  
"Where she's in Remedial Ed.," said Eames. "That's hardly smart."  
"Come on. Ice capades in July?"  
"That could've been a fluke."  
"And some of these other offenses... re-engineering the entire school's computer interface so that it acted like HAL from _2001_. Correcting the *language* teachers."  
"Fidgetting in class. Not paying attention in class," Eames flipped pages. "Fighting, fighting, fighting, fighting... Defacing school property... *fighting*..."  
Goren peeked. "I notice nobody else was bought in for fighting *with* her," he said. "Isn't that strange?"  
"Not for a mutie."  
"Ay," warned Spence. "We're not paid to be racist... *girlie*."  
Eames made a fist. Goren held her into her seat.  
"Yeah, that pissed you off, didn't it?" Spence leaned back on his chair. "Reckon some of those mutant folks're tired of hearing 'mutie' slung around, too."  
"She was bought in every day because she was *bleeding*," said Eames.  
"Yeah? So's my kid. He's a full-time nerd," Spence informed. "Never picks the fights, but he sure as shit gets th' blame for 'em."  
Goren found the most recent pages. "She's doing well in correspondance school," he noted. "Leaping ahead in record time."  
"I'm still asking her landlord about her."  
"*You* saw her apartment," said Goren. "Did that look like the residence of a violent psychopath?"  
"No. But they never do." Eames waved a legal document. "And what sort of person puts out a restraining order against their own *mother*?"

Sara's colour was coming back, her babbling had died down, as had the twitching obsession to put her peeling skin back together. She gratefully accepted the hot meal Mort made for her and gradually trembled into a tired slump. She also jumped and yelped at the telephone ringing.  
Jones answered it. Then she got furious. "You're not allowed to call here," she said. "You have thirty seconds to hang up before *I* hang up and call the police on your ass."  
Sara's slump almost became a full-on collapse. "Let me guess. *Mother*."  
"She hung up," said Jones. "What a surprise." The phone rang again. "*Now* what?" She picked it up. "Yes? Mm-hm. Oh, she's getting over the shock right now, and it's getting late. Yes. I'm sure an inspection in the morning's going to be fine." She listened, but mouthed, 'social worker' at Mort. "Yes, I know what you saw on the news. I've seen it, too."  
Mort knelt by Sara's side and held her. "It'll be all righ'," he managed. "We'll figure somethin' out."  
"Four words," murmured Sara. "New record."  
"Yeh. Have t' piss off... soon. Or get in trouble."  
"Or purchase a camp bed. Or a futon."  
"I'll just not be 'ere... when th' inspector comes. Y're better off."  
"Says you," she sighed. "I rather like the company."  
His heart almost exploded from that affirmation. _God, you're gonna be in trouble when you turn eighteen,_ he thought.

[1] Bruce Spence is that really tall Aussie guy with the horse-ish face. His first international appearance was in one of the _Mad Max_ movies as the aviator. He's been in other features, but I have no clue which ones you guys'd remember. This is his cameo  
[2] The Brisbane version of the Yellow Pages is so full of businesses that it's been released in two volumes for almost a decade, now. Whenever an Australian is referring to a really thick document, they make some variant of this joke.  
[3] Detectives Goren and Eames and Officer Stabler are all from spin-offs of _Law and Order_. See if you can name them all  
[4] Aka Miss Marvel, the chick that Rogue got her extra powers from in the comics

~

Mrs Jones used to be a nurse, and finally cleared Sara for slumber when the clock approached midnight. Sara gratefully slumped into bed, only voicing a minor protest that she deserved the mattress.  
Mort just gently removed her shoes and lovingly tucked her in.  
"She's special to you, isn't she?" said Jones.  
Mort closed the door. "She's a miracle." He was compelled to restore Sara's order to her flat. Something to make her feel at home when she woke up and had to face the next Spanish Inquisition[1].  
"I thought the same thing when I needed a babysitter for the late shift," said Jones. She fell to helping him. "At first I asked myself how any mother could let her go for being a mutie - no offense..."  
"None taken."  
"And then I actually *talked* to her mother..." She shuddered. "Frankly, I'm shocked both her parents are still married to each other. It was on the 'phone, but *still*... She is an absolute witch with a bee. And that's being *nice*."  
"Never knew my mum," said Mort. "Got chucked out."  
Mrs Jones winced. "That should never happen to *any* child. Mutie, norm, black, white or what..." She fumed over the washing up. "Some aspects of the human race make me want to boycott it."  
Mort laughed at that one.

"...early mornin' singin' song! Sing, siiiinng song... sing a song..."  
Mort smiled to himself and kept his eyes shut. "Mornin' luv," he said, picturing her naked only in his mind. "Le' me know when... y're decent."  
Sara continued until the final, chime-like 'sing', then rustled into a robe. "Modest, now."  
Mort got up, folding away the sheets and blanket, stowing them in the filing cabinet that served as her linnen cupboard. He was lost about what to do with the mattress.  
"Leave it," Sara advised. "Until I find a spool, it's the only spare furniture I have."  
Mort rolled his eyes. "Tell me yer kiddin'..." He remembered having a spool. Combination coffee table, improv seating, storage unit and, when the winter got too severe - heat source.  
"I *was* rather planning to dress it up a little." {Bzt!} "Oh *fudge*... and I haven't put a face on, yet."  
He was reluctant to leave her, but he knew he had to. "Get 'em to wait... 'till we're dressed?" He gestured at his own PJs and her robe. "Their fault for bein'... early."  
Sara waved him into the shower while she turned on the intercom. "I thought business hours didn't commence until nine," she said.  
"NYPD never sleeps, miss."  
He barely heard the, "Oh *FUDGE*!" and Sara's hectic scramble for some clothes over the water. As it was, he decided to hurry it up and at least *try* to look like everything was above board. If all else failed, he would lie and imply he was impotent.  
The little wench with the nosey git had looked the sort to believe *anything* about a mutie.  
The detectives were in the flat and he was wrangling breakfast for them both before he knew what was what. He remembered to ask if they wanted anything, at least. "We go' choc'late... tea..." he fumbled through the cupboards. "Buggerall else, pard'n th' French."  
"The tea's herbal, I'm afraid," said Sara. "Tastes like boiled grass clippings infused with lilac. I've heard one can build up a tolerance, though."  
The male smirked. "Thanks, but no thanks."  
"Mr Toynbee... are there any more eggs? We could at least offer a snack..." Sara was dithering, trying to set things up with too few resources.  
He looked at the frying scramble and tried to imagine how he could stretch that much and the one rasher of bacon to feed four. "Cupboard's bare, luv," he said. "You eat first. I'll scrounge la'er." _Translated: I'll go hungry for your sake. You *need* the comfort of food inside you._  
"I should've gone shopping last night," said Sara. "Alas, I was unexpectedly derailed." She sat and stared at the pitiful meal. "It feels so wrong to stuff my face while you're all going without."  
The male mouthed, 'doormat' to the female, who sneered.  
_Saw that, bunky. You're lucky she's watchin' or I'd rip you *right* off._  
"It's fine," said the male. What was his name? Gonad? "We've already eaten."  
Sara made a small, anguished noise.  
"Do I 'ave t' do... airplanes?" Mort threatened.  
She concealed a giggle behind a hand, but she at last picked up her fork and ate. Dainty little bites. Trying to make a small amount of food seem bigger.  
"We have a few... concerns about your permanent record," said the female. Eaves? Something like 'eaves'... Eve?  
Sara's anguished noise was a little louder. "Which particular parts would concern you? The explosions? The quote-unquote 'fights'? Or perhaps my disruptive behaviour?"  
"I'll take all of the above," said Eve.

[1] "*NO*body expects the Spanish-- oh sod it..." -- Monty Python

~

Sara lowered her head. "I guess structured education and I don't really mix," she said. "There's aways some level of... conflict. Between myself and established authority... between myself and the teachers..."  
"Between you and the students?" prompted Eve.  
"No, that was just malice," said Sara. "They didn't like me, so they made me bleed. Mostly owing to a rumour that I was actually some kind of transsexual."  
"There's your 'moral reasons'," said Gonad.  
"*Are* you a transsexual?" said Eve. This earned a glare from Gonad, not to mention Mort's eternal hatred.  
"No. I merely look male in the few items of off-the-rack clothing that actually cover me decently. Jeans with legs long enough for mine disguise the bottom half, and the shirts that conceal the midriff also obscure the top." She tidied up her empty plate and utensils, then absently washed them. "Rest assured I am, was, and always have been   
completely female."  
"She got documents," said Mort.  
Sara raised an eyebrow at him. "Quite."  
_Fuck._ Her documents were in one of her lock-away positions. A case with a lock in a bottom drawer. Never before had he wished he was mute again. "Maybe I aught t' go... shoppin'," he said. He found a pair of cheap shades that were gender-neutral and put them on.  
"Maybe you should," said Sara. "CPS is due at ten."  
He had no wallet, but that would change in a matter of minutes on the street. "You be okay?"  
"Moderately."  
Mort turned and went into exile.

~

Goren watched Sara bustle. There was little to re-order about her apartment, but he let her indulge in what paltry nervous activity she had. She was scared, worried, anxious, and it all had to go somewhere or she might just jump out of her skin. Again.  
Sara flipped a page in her day book, running a finger down the new day. She examined the twin candles and took the lit one out onto a little metal plate on the pocket balcony. She returned inside and retrieved a long taper and another pot candle. The candle went onto the windowsill and the taper was lit from the old candle just as the last of the wax erupted into flame. She took the fire from the old candle and, with practiced and careful movements that reminded Goren of a Japanese tea ceremony, lit the new candle, placing it just so.  
"You're keeping vigil," he said.  
"For Daddy," she said. "So he can find me." She blew out the taper and placed it in a painted jar of other used tapers. It looked - almost decorative.  
"I've always wondered, you know... how long does one of those candles last? Burning continuously."  
"Five days, give or take a few hours," said Sara. "It depends on the generosity of the candle-makers."  
He did a rough guesstimate. Given that each taper represented five days... "You've been waiting a month and a half?"  
"I've been here a month and a half," said Sara. "During which time, my neighbours and my landlord either guessed or found out I'm a mutant... I'm still here and there hasn't been any trouble until - yesterday."  
"I saw those skin flaps are gone," noted Eames. "Did you save them, or...?"  
"They're still attatched," Sara blushed, turning a darker shade of bluish aqua. "It seems to want to come off in one piece, I've tried trimming... TMI. Excuse me. You - don't really want to know all this."  
"*I'm* fascinated," said Eames. "I'd *love* to learn some mutie beauty tips. Where did it all go?"  
"Tucked, folded, and held in a sort of girdle arrangement," she was truly dark, now, staring at her hands as the fingers intertwined with each other. "...if I go out today, I'll have to wear gloves..."  
Goren could barely *see* where the peeling was. She was overcautious. Twice shy, as it were, from being bitten once. "I kind of guessed you'd prepared for this," he indicated the table of body parts. "You know how to handle latex?"  
She took the change of subject with the grattitude of a drowning man who, having clutched at the straw, found it was firmly attatched to a lifebouy. "Oh, yes. I was fascinated by the opportunity to change myself when I was younger... and rather desperate to stay the same when this--" a gesture at her scales, "--happened. You can understand, can't you? Why I'd need to blend in?"  
"Of *course*," he soothed. "Yesterday only proves it."  
"Well, yesterday only proved there's so much one can do on a budget. I've been... trying to save my supplies for a sufficiently large need. There's only so much that glue can do. As everybody's seen." Another bustle. Quick, long steps to check her hand against the mould. "It'll still fit. Thank goodness."  
"You can't have grown that much in a month and a half," said Eames.  
"I did once. I was thirteen. Constantly growing out of things, it was a *mess*. The wedding people had to fit me at the last possible instant just to make things work."  
"Wedding. People?"  
"I'm a harpist... amongst other things," she put her spare hand down. "I did weddings, parties, bah mitzvahs... though probably not any more, now. I'll miss playing." A supreme sadness touched her eyes. She closed them, and for a moment, became as emotionless as a rock. When she returned to herself. "But I get the feeling we digress." Another mini-bustle, feeding her hamster. "Is there anything specific in my record that looks... bad?"  
"Pretty much all of it," said Eames.  
"What was that thing you did?" said Goren. "When you mentioned not playing the harp, you went... blank."  
"You don't really need to see me breaking down over a silly harp," said Sara. "I just put my mourning aside for later, when I have the time."  
"That must have helped you cope when you left home," said Goren.  
"Only somewhat. I didn't need it all that much because mother..." she trailed off, cocking her head to listen.  
Someone upstairs was watching CNN... something about an attack?  
Sara turned her computer on and activated a program that mimicked the TV, also turning to CNN.  
"Reports are unclear as to why the mutant attacked the president, or which terrorist organisation may or may not be involved," said the presenter.  
"Oh my God," whispered Sara. She rushed to the balcony and screamed, "*MOOOOOOOOOOORT*!"  
Goren stared at the man on the scene, but didn't hear a word the reporter said. He'd remember the protesters in the background, and the minor fracas between the pro- and anti-mutant people. He'd remember seeing the shaky zoom-in to the balcony, and the white-faced President trying to smile.  
He'd remember Eames reading Sara her rights, arrested for conspiracy to attack the white-house, incitement to riot, and manslaughter.  
Then Mr Toynbee buzzed the door. "The fuck's goin' on?"  
He was arrested, too.  
For being a mutant.

~

Mort had, in fact, managed to snag one wallet and quickly ditch all forms of ID and any kind of card with anyone's name on it before he slowed to a halt outside of the TV store.  
There was no sound, but the words scrolling across the bottom of the screens said more than enough.  
_Mutants attack White House,_ the ticker read. _President is unharmed. Sources are uncertain which organisations, if any, are involved._  
He felt like he wanted to throw up.  
_This ain't Magneto's work,_ he thought. _Not Mystique's style... It's *insane*. Who'd *do* this?_  
Trying to lipread the newscaster, read the ticker, and watch the action at the same time made him feel dizzy. He could *feel* people staring at him from the side as they, too, caught what was going on. It was an effort not to hyperventilate in panic.  
_Sara. What's gonna happen to *Sara*?_  
And then her scream, far distant. Calling his name.  
Mort swam upstream against the solid blockade of milling people, dodging in all directions as he ran, trying to get there. When he did, he remembered too late that he didn't have a key.  
He buzzed the intercom with, "The fuck's goin' on?"  
"...should you be unable to afford an attourney..." said a voice in the background. Eve.  
"Stay right where you are, Mr Toynbee," said Gonad. "We'll be down in a minute."  
Then came the crisply starched stickybeak, just on her appointed hour. "What's happening?"  
"Haven't the foggiest," he said. "Some nutter attacked th'... White House."  
Stickybeak let herself in with a, "Stay *put*, please?"  
_Fuck that,_ thought Mort, and followed her in. He thundered up the stairs while Stickybeak caught the anaemic elevator. When he got there, Sara was in handcuffs and Eve quickly read him *his* miranda rights for conspiracy to attack the White House, cuffed him, and gently propelled them both towards the lift.  
Stickybeak emerged into the confusion, and once again, Mort didn't catch her name. He barely acknowledged Sara begging the woman to house-sit and feed Chuckie... keep the candle in the window lit for her father. Or on the balcony if she was unsure of the time she'd be there. Just one little visit a day. Ten minutes out of her time. Please.  
And the next thing he knew, he was in the back of the police car, listening to Gonad and Eve argue about the validity of the charges versus how pissed off their boss was going to be.  
The police band radio was full of mutant arrest chatter, requests for positive ID on various individuals, chasing down outstanding warrants on known mutant criminals, and basically arresting anyone who even looked funny.  
They were panicking, arresting anyone who could possibly be a mutant terrorist.  
They'd probably be shocked when they found out they actually caught one.  
Him.  
And he'd just damned Sara by association.  
"I'm sorry," he said.  
"I can understand your curiosity," said Sara. She thought he was talking about her stuff. "I can see why you felt compelled to pry when I wasn't aware. You were even civil enough to put things back where they belonged... It's just - I thought people respected locks."  
"They only use 'em... to hide," said Mort. "Ain't no respect."  
"Ah," said Sara. "The illusion of safety. Yes. So what, if anything, is truly safe?"  
Mort shrugged. "Buggered if I know."

~

 

It was a kneejerk reaction. Registered mutants, visible mutants, people who *looked* like they could be mutants... all were swept up for 'questioning' by the authorities.  
The cells quickly overflowed, forcing the police to improvise an enclosure and use it as a temporary holding facility. Word, of course, passed around and the secure perimiter soon gathered a crowd of screaming fanatics.  
Sara was a dark, dark aqua, and she huddled in the shadows of her bunk. Mort could see that someone had managed to cut her peeling skin from her... and they hadn't been gentle.  
His own processing had been - rough. He had, in Sara's words, 'gone automatic' during the more brutal parts.  
And Sara didn't have that option.  
He sat nearby, not invading her personal space. "Need someone?" he offered.  
Sara lunged, draping herself around him and shaking with tears. "...they didn' 'ave t' be *horrid*..." she managed around the sobs.  
Mort gingerly patted her back, rocking her slowly. People passed him by, glaring at the two of them.  
Mort returned the glare. Fending them off. Protecting her.

Piotr Rasputin watched the television. Like everyone else, he was rivitted to the news. Here, in this safe house, he was watching the possibility of incoming danger.  
People were talking about a 'huge conspiracy' involving hundreds of mutants, most of whom were in New York. Once again, they focussed on their 'lizard girl' who had been rounded up mere instants after the story broke.  
She, like her partner, were visible mutants. Captured because of a unique rage overtaking the people. Piotr had seen it before, when anyone who visited a mosque or who was identifyably foreign was immediately suspect.  
The only problem was that few people would *care* how many innocent were winnowed from the guilty.  
It was easy for them to condemn a mutant for being a mutant. For being inhuman.  
It would be easy for them to excuse inhumane acts *against* those mutants.  
But what could he do here? Miles away from anybody and with the emergency resources the Professor had left in this place... he didn't have many options.  
A Dr Hank McCoy appeared on the screen, calmly explaining that hysteria did not solve anything, and many mutants were more afraid of themselves than ordinary humans were.  
Dr McCoy... He'd seen that name...  
Piotr leaped up, dislodging Avery in the process, and reached for the small book near the telephone. Emergency numbers. He'd skimmed through them when they first arrived, but had been too frazzled to let anything sink in.  
There he was. Dr Hank McCoy. Home, office, cellular, email, website...  
Piotr muttered a prayer of thanks and started dialling.

~

Sara had cried her tears out and appeared to be vague and distant from some degree of shock. She clung to him, still, but payed little attention to the world outside her head.  
Every now and again, she'd say some random phrase that may or may not have been related to reality.  
"...they didn't even let me keep my underpants..."  
Mort actually remembered a fragment of that. Just the image of someone closing each article of clothing in a biohazard baggie for later examination. Nothing more.  
All of the people here had found a bunk for one reason or another. Some obvious, like the very pregnant black woman with the growth on one side of her face... some not, like the vacant-eyed man just staring at nothing a few feet away.  
Children uprooted from their homes cried and whimpered. Most of them were without comfort.  
Almost everyone here was visibly different. Those who were apparently normal were either deep in shock or nervously watching the doors.  
One was walking, checking on all the others. Picking up crying children and soothing them until their tears ebbed. Doing what little she could for the others.  
The most noticable thing about her was that she was missing an eye. The black patch that covered her left socket and the scar that ran above and below told Mort that this was a woman well used to surviving, no matter what her life threw at her. She walked like a predator, but she *moved* like someone who deeply concerned. Someone who *cared*, yet was toughened by life into a dangerous creature.  
Mort watched her listen to the pregnant woman.  
"They bought me in for this," she gestured at the disfiguration. "It's just a fibrous growth. It's not even cancer, it's just something that *happened*..." she sniffed. "The doctors are still tryin' t' find out what it is... an' they bought me in fo' bein' a mutie..."  
"Did they hit you?"  
The woman shook her head.  
"I know they strip-searched everyone... even the children. Did you see if they swapped gloves between probings?"  
"...o my god..." whimpered the woman.  
"They double-gloved," murmured Sara. "Went through an even dozen per patient. Each set tagged and bagged."  
Mort checked her over. Her eyes were still distant. She wasn't home, yet she'd answered with perfect clarity.  
One-eye stared for a moment, then went back to subtle and gentle questions. How far along was the pregnancy? Were there any signs of mutation in the scans? Did anyone want a DNA test to find the X-gene? Were there official charges? Had she been read her miranda rights? Did she know what she was charged with? Could she plausibly prove an alibi? Did she know any really good lawyers?  
After that, it was a set of instructions. The disfigured mother-to-be had to keep warm and try to relax. Focus on deep breathing and making herself calm. It was all going to be a big mistake and they'd be home and laughing before the end of the week.  
"Hey," she said to Mort. "Name's Callisto. You two an item?"  
"Kinda sorta," Mort said. "She saved me life. I owe 'er."  
"Don't talk a lot."  
"Got 'it by lightnin'. Can't talk a lot."  
Callisto shrugged, checking Sara's pupils by gently turning the girl's face towards the light and holding her hand between the light and her eyes. "She's retreated. Happens to the sheltered ones. I'm guessing she was doing okay up until her arrest?"  
"For limited definitions of... 'okay'," said Mort. "'Er mum tossed 'er... for bein' a mutie. She's been copin'. Just."  
Callisto whistled backwards.  
"Yeh," said Mort.

~

Mort measured Callisto up. Same orange one-size-fits-most jumpsuit as everyone else. No harrassed demeanor, nor any sign of shock or surprise. Were it not for the eye patch and associated scar, she looked... normal.  
"Appearances are deceiving," said Callisto. "I'm a mutie, just like you two[1]. My big mistake was volunteering for the register up at my damn-sure-soon-to-be-ex-employers. I went quietly with the police about five minutes after the shit hit the fan. You?"  
"I'm with 'er," said Mort. "An' she go' in... trouble with th' law. 'Er face fell off... inna public area."  
"Shit. I *knew* I knew her. Those fuzzy security vids did her *no* favours."  
"...where's chuckie?" murmured Sara.  
"'E's safe at 'ome... everyone's lookin' after 'im."  
"Chuckie?" said Callisto.  
"She's got an 'amster." Mort soothed Sara's hair. "It's agorophobic."  
Callisto stared at him. Even with one eye, she was good at that 'are you on drugs or just shitting me' glare that required one eye to squint. "Never mind. I'm better off not knowing."  
"...i left the candle burning... what if there's a fire?"  
"Mrs Jones'll take care... 'f ev'rythin, luv."  
"...how's daddy gonna fin' me now?"  
Callisto sighed. "She's going to have to walk it out. You two'd be better off staying more than a meter inside the fence. There's no guards in here with us, and a thin security team keeping the crowds at bay."  
"Ta, luv."  
"Don't call me 'love' unless you mean it," she said.  
"Righ'. Gotcha."

[1] And on a side-note - does anyone know what the *HELL* Callisto's powers actually *ARE*? I haven't got any cannon refs 

~

Hank pulled up at the discrete little place, tucked away where nobody would look at it. He remembered it vaguely as one of the Xavier holiday homes. Now it had an underground complex beneath it that would rival the Pentagon's nuclear fallout shelter.  
It was a moment's work to bring out the large stack of pizzas, and only a little fiddling to balance them all the way up to the front door.  
The large young man that opened the portal had to be young Piotr.  
The ravenous crowd that dissassembled the pizza pile had to be the survivors of the raid on Xavier's institute.  
"Beware of geeks bearing gifts," he joked. "Anyone hurt?"  
"Avery was hit by dart," said Piotr, lapsing into a thick Russian accent[1]. "He does not sleep, but he is not aware."  
"And how long?" Hank measured the boy's pulse, checked his eyes as best he could. Synchopated breathing, but he wasn't showing any signs of being in medical trouble...  
"Since the night... I am careful, taking the dart out."  
"Yes, I noticed the bandage..." reflexes still there. "Do you know if he has any bad reactions to stimulants?"  
"He does not sleep. He never needs them."  
_Lovely..._ "Many mutants have ideosynchratic reactions to medication... Just a very small dose of a mild stimulant, then. And hope it works the way it *should*." His bag was always stocked with a few of the odder requirements for mutantkind, including super-mild versions of over-the-counter medication. Just a few millilitres... "Cross your   
fingers..."  
The needle went in perfectly. As did the medicine.  
"...ow..." Avery blinked. "IthinkI'mgonnabesick..."  
Piotr picked him up wholesale and bolted for the nearest bathroom.  
"Dr McCoy?" said a petite brunette girl. "Do you know what's gonna happen?"

[1] I personally abhorred that they gave Collossus an American accent in the film

~

 

Walking Sara around, even with bare feet on the blistering tarmac, was a good excuse to case the joint.  
The fence was a hasty remodel of a former, shorter incarnation. That had not, however, prevented the builders from skimping on the razor wire. In fact, were it not for that razor wire, the screaming crowd outside would have already shaken the impromptu fortifications from their hasty base and turned every single assumed mutant into *jam*.  
Shelter was a couple of ex-aircraft hangers, each with a second floor fabricated from raw pine, and bedding was just a set of double-bunks set at regular intervals. Only the barest legal concessions had been enforced to prevent injuries.  
And speaking of legalities...  
There. Lining the west side of the enclosure, were a solid row of porta-potties that were a nod towards sanitation needs. The other nod was a metal trough and a series of taps.  
They had clothing - a uniquely ugly unitard each, or a large white shirt for the kids - shelter, and sanitation.  
What about food?  
Mort found out, more or less, when he encountered the conveyor belt on the east side. There was a compound on the other side of the fence,   
there, and a more solid building was accepting things in trucks, and people in hazmat suits were putting the last of the conveyor belt together.  
They'd thought things out with an almost obsessive paranoia. The hole in the fence just allowed for the passage of the belt and something food-tray sized. Just to be certain, they'd added loops of razor wire and a bristle of guns trained on each port.  
The guns were manned. Goons in hazmat suits and fingers on the trigger.  
"Good evening, gentlemen," Sara chirped, giving them a wave and a smile.  
One set of goons, obviously given orders to be wary for happenings on the mutie side of the fence, each aimed solidly at the both of them.  
Loudspeakers squeaked into life. "Move along, muties."  
They were moving along anyway. Mort just added a little extra hussle to it as he helped Sara on their way.  
"We're a hedge[1]," Sara giggled.  
Mort felt a stab of guilt. If he hadn't left, he'd have been there. If he'd been there, he'd have been able to *do* something. Knock out the two trying to arrest her, for a start.  
And then what?  
Magneto was in jail, and it wasn't as if he had bolt-holes up the wazoo like old baldy. Magneto just - improvised. A cliffside, an old scrapyard... and boom. Instant hide-out.  
He'd never had to *think* around Magneto.  
The following thought dawned on him like the sun going nova.  
...and the old bastard had *encouraged* it.  
Sara was his polar opposite in that respect. She encouraged him to expand by means of gentle encouragement. Asking his opinion about meals in progress gradually taught him the finesse of her cooking. She'd walk him through the process if he appeared interested, and often drafted him into helping.  
All the time, babbling about what did what, and sometimes delving into the why and how as well.  
It was the same process with the computer.  
Before Sara, he was vaguely aware of the internet as yet another means of communication. Mystique was the genius with electrical stuff. He just put machines together.  
But Sara *shared*. She showed him how to google. She introduced him to the basics of her television program and told him, "The rest is somewhat intuitive. Feel free to mess with it, I'm in the stress-testing phase anyway."  
No-one had ever told him to *try* and wreck stuff before.  
He'd tried to return the favour, when the first lessons in a more advanced math arrived by mail. "'Ave a go," he'd said. "Might be fun?"  
Those days, those chances were gone, now. Sara's bright eyes had gone dull.  
Her little step forward towards peace between the muties and the norms erased by one nutso with a knife.  
Last he'd heard, a batch of military idiots had attacked some school for muties.  
Callisto joined them for the second circuit. "Cased the joint?"  
"Yeh. Minimum stuff. Geneva'd give 'em a... squeakin' pass."  
Callisto glared at the fence, the razor wire, and the yammering crowds. "I used to work in a security company. My mutations made it - easier for me." She pointed outside. "They're going to need a second barrier. Sooner or later, someone's not going to care about the razor wire and have a go at us. They'll cut themselves to ribbons and blame the government."  
"An' we should care... why?"  
"Because the government will blame *us* for being alive and in here. We're the cause." Her raptor gaze flicked over the entire facility. "They've gone low cost... Is there anywhere we can talk to them?"  
"Hedge," said Sara, pointing.  
Callisto's one eye flicked to the conveyor, then back to Sara. "Either she's gone deeper than I thought, or there's something seriously screwed up in there."  
"Some kinda joke," said Mort. "I don't get it."  
Callisto shook her head and marched towards the conveyor. Even with bare feet and a known absence of underthings, she walked as though she had an army on her side. The guns raised at her approach, and she put her hands on her head. "I just want to *talk*," she said. Loud and clear. Enunciating every word.  
Goons conferred.  
"They really should have invested in headsets," said Sara. "Trying to shout through two hazmat suits is *so* taxing." Her eyes were alive. She was back.  
"You're payin' attention?" said Mort.  
"I've been... re-prioritising," said Sara. "Here and now, what matters is maximum survival. If we deal with that, we can deal with everything else."  
A stab of fear. He'd seen her do something similar, before. Going blank, then returning to herself in order to deal with something. "You be okay?"  
"For the meanwhile," said Sara. "I can save that much for some kind of degaussing at a much later date."  
"I'm just saying a second fence should keep the crowds from hurting themselves, reduce the risk of escape *and* contamination to the civillians," said Callisto.  
Sara joined by her side. "You don't want them to get *mutie* germs, do you?"  
The sarcasm was completely lost on the guy with the gun.  
"You're all wearin' suits," said Mort. "What about them?" a nod to the yammering crowd. "You gonna pay for... their shots?"  
"Think of all the medical bills," said Callisto. "The *lawsuits*... it'd be debilitating."  
The goon raised an eyebrow at the three of them. "What are you? Some kinda committee?"  
"We *could* be the itty bitty titty committee?" murmured Sara.  
Callisto snorted and smirked. Louder, she said, "We're just - concerned. Almost everyone here has someone who could be over there," a gesture to the fence and the angry norms. "If there *is* a risk of harm, we'd like to see it minimised."  
"You *do* want the people to see that you're doing the utmost to prevent our escape," said Sara. "Don't you?"  
That edge on her last two words got the goon thinking. Mort was personally amazed.  
"I'll talk to my superior," he said.  
Sara smiled. "Progress. At least, progress of a sort. I hope the political edge worked."  
"Are you always like this?" said Callisto.  
"Chatty? I try to curb it when I can."  
"Okay. I can deal with chatty. Just *try* to curb the wise-cracks, kid. I had to look like I was in charge, there."  
"He was lipreading," said Sara. "He knew exactly what I said."  
"You could tell?" said Mort.  
"He sprained something trying not to laugh, dear. Intuitively obvious, I think."  
Mort shrugged. "Not t' me, luv. I was watching th'... gun."  
"Common error," said Callisto. "You watch their faces. When they go impassive, you're as good as meat."  
"Charmant," drawled Sara. "You're speaking from personal experience?"  
Callisto pointed to her missing eye and the scar. "Hel-*lo-oo*..."  
"Not so intuitively obvious, dear."  
"Word of warning, kid. I don't 'do' endearments."  
Sara blinked. "Sorry, but I was rather away when you introduced yourself."  
"Callisto. Enhanced senses, reflexes and co-ordination."  
"Sara Louise Adrien. I sort of... blend when I'm frightened."  
"Mor'imer Toynbee," said Mort. "Weird froggy stuff."  
"Weird. Froggy. Stuff," said Callisto.  
"I can stick t' walls." Mort coughed. Okay. Four words was still his upper limit. "Jump like th' blazes. Spit stuff. An' me tongue's prehensile."  
"Leaving the best 'till last," said Callisto. She nudged Sara, "Do you share?[2]"  
Sara went dark from mortification.  
Mort held up his hands, even though she hadn't moved. "No' into bein' used."  
"Lifelong visible?"  
"Yeh."  
"Damn," she said. "All the lifelong visibles are jumpier than all hell. Pity." Callisto sighed. "Fine. Business. You said you could spit stuff. What *sort* of stuff?"  
"Go' stuff that sets... 'arder'n concrete. If I'm real pissed... I can do acid."  
"Remind me not to piss you off." She turned to Sara. "You're not a lifelong..."  
"Still shedding the old skin." Sara rolled up a sleeve, showing the portion where someone had slashed the remains of her old epidermis off of her. The new, raw flesh underneath was forming tiny bubbles, which gradually turned into glistening aqua acales. "It started like a rash, and the doctors couldn't do a thing about it... so they took a blood test. They said they were checking for every eventuality."  
"And they found one," said Mort.  
Sara rolled her sleeve back down. "Here comes the guard. Looks like the head honcho gets a mouth-speaker."  
Mort followed Callisto's lead and put his hands on his head. After a heartbeat, Sara followed.  
"You three want a second fence around the first one?" said Honcho.  
"Us?" said Sara. "Oh, of course not. What we *want* is complete and utter freedom."  
"We just have *concerns*," said Callisto, giving a glare to Sara. "It occurred to us that an extra layer of prevention would -uh- be prudent."  
"Stops them--" Mort nodded crowdwards, "--chuckin' stuff."  
Honcho narrowed his eyes at the conflicting statements.

[1] _The Tick_ comics... again  
[2] _ElfQuest_ side-fling.

~

"Of course," said Sara, "looking at nothing but blocks of concrete would be rather demoralising... Maybe we'd better forget about it."  
Callisto clued on. "Yeah. Bleak blocks everwhere we look? Hardly aesthetic."  
Mort used every ounce of energy not to grin. "Pro'lly too expensive anyway," he said. "Forget it."  
They strolled away on their circuit.  
Sara turned and walked backwards. "Ah, the marvels of reverse psychology," she said, barely moving her lips. "Big chief's evidently got an earpiece, since he's holding his head. Gesturing with the gun. Nice. Obviously this man wasn't briefed in basic firearms safety... could've shot his people thrice, now." Sara turned forward, grinning. "There'll be a low fence of barricades by tomorrow. Maybe they'll go as far as three-high."  
"How the hell old *are* you, kid?" Callisto said.  
"Sixteen. Seventeen come December twelfth. Why?"  
"Because that was a flim-flam worthy of a pro. I've seen 'em dance before, but - *damn*..."  
"Entirely my fault," said Sara. "I used to make something of a career out of disarming live psychologists... you know, playing head-games back? I'm quite immune to theirs, but... they never really expected me to have any. Poor things."  
"Poor things?" echoed Mort.  
"I think I went overboard when I put one of them in his own mental institution..."  
Callisto had a truly wicked laugh. "We just might make a good committee after all. Sometimes, I need a quick thinker on my side... and you already have strategies."  
"Stratagem," Sara corrected. "They'll wise up if we use it too often."  
"Don't undersell yourself," said Mort. "That's *my* mistake."

~

Avery, for once, was not flipping chanels. There wasn't much of a point, anyway, since just about every station was showing the same image, in or out of synch with the others. This time, he was actually paying attention, and it wasn't because he was feeling poorly.  
He was absolutely terrified, watching the images of the mutants in the enclosure. Watching them line up for the rations the soldiers gave them by remote. Watching the shaky zoom-ins at the visibly different.  
He pointed, while Dr McCoy and Piotr talked. "I know him," he said. "I've seen him in the Professor's files."  
"You are not supposed to be in the Professor's files," said Piotr.  
"I got bored." Avery shrugged. "And since my power's control of electronics... uhm..."  
That 'uhm' was never good news. "We will talk later," said Piotr. "Do you remember anything?"  
"His face?"  
The downside of Avery's power was that he tended to have the attention span and recall of an amoeba on crack. Piotr suppressed a groan. "Try to remember. Put yourself back in the moment, da?"  
"Uhm... I remember reading something about toys," said Avery.  
"A toymaker?"  
"...no..." Avery closed his eyes, concentrating. "I think it was part of his name. Toy... something."  
By this time, Dr McCoy was leaning on the couch. "Hurm. It appears Mr Toynbee is not as dead as we'd thought. I must examine the unique resilience of Homo Sapiens Superior... Possibly at a date when the situation is not so dire."  
The TV played a clip of him ministering to a tall, blue-green creature of indeterminate gender, earlier on in the day.  
"He's made a friend," observed Kitty. "And I get the feeling that might be like, a bad thing?"  
"He's made two friends," said Piotr. The TV was showing three, now. One definitely female. They were at the conveyor belt and talking to the hazmat-suited guards. Now they were seated together and discussing things over trays of food that could be eaten with a spork.  
"The greenish one's the so-called New York terrorist," said Jubes. "She was trying to blend in and her face fell off in a crowd. Usual results."  
"Meanin' she ran like spit an' they rioted," said Rahne. "They got 'er on 'incitement to riot', an' they reckon she's in on the White House thing."  
Kitty snorted. "Are you kidding? She looks like she couldn't plot her way out of a wet paper bag."  
"So what are we going to *do*?" said Avery. "Somebody has to do something?"  
Dr McCoy mused on this. "We could begin with simple, civil measures. For exam--"  
And then the scream invaded their minds.

~

Sara was the last to fall, but only by extreme effort. She saw people, young and old, falling into defensive huddles, trying to shut the noise out of their heads. She saw random soldiers and civillians fall, too, in a similar attitude.  
Mort and Callisto were already down, yet many of the others inside were unaware of the noise and were confused.  
Her last thought, before someone else's took over, was that this scream was only hurting the *real* mutants.  
Then it was all blackness, and one thought merged over itself a millions times.  
_...findthemallfindthemallfindthemallfindthemallfindthemall..._

Brisco was no genius with electronics, but he did believe his temporary partner - a gangly youth still getting over her spots - when she said the setup in the lounge room was too intricate to be reassembled accurately at the base. Her job was to investigate the hardware for anything suspicious and make a copy of the relevant files for the boys over in evidence.  
His job was to seek out anything incriminating from the rest of the apartment.  
It wouldn't be so bad except that every freaking nutso who shared the building with the mutie came a-calling to visit her damn hamster. Brisco had had to foster it out to an otherwise-shut-in so he could work in peace.  
He gathered the studio portraits. "Geez. You'd never believe *that* used to look like *this*."  
"Physical change isn't all that weird," said Parr. "According to the sites she visits? Very few visible mutants are that way from birth. It's way more common to seem normal and then - change."  
"Any age limit to these transformations?" Brisco rooted about in the mutie's drawers. Lots and lots of cheapie cotton underthings. Nothing fancy. No hidden compartments, taped-down baggies or false bottoms. Damn. "Or do we have to guess which is the mutie and which is the extreme makeover?"  
"Doesn't say. There's a survey, but the results are scattered all over the place. I'm guessing it's unpredictable."  
"Which means that any mild-mannered teenager can wake up tomorrow as a super-powered mutie psycho," said Brisco. His hands closed upon a stack of letters in the bottom drawer. "Even you."  
The expected, "Droll, Brisco..." was not forthcoming.  
The letters were bound together with ribbon. "Hey, Parr! I said even *you* could wake up as a mutie psycho!"  
Nothing.  
"Parr?"  
Silence there, as Poe might have written, and nothing more.  
Brisco dropped the bound letters on the bed and started for the lounge. "Violet[1]?"  
Parr was on the floor, clutching at her head and hissing against some mysterious pain. Brisco reached for his radio. "Officer down! Officer down! I need an EMT at fifth and twenty-second, apartment one-fifty-six[2], and I need it *yesterday*!"  
"We can't send one, they're already too busy," said Base. "People are dropping like flies all over the city. Even some of the EMTs are down."  
Brisco found a pillow and put it under her head. It was all he could do. "Hang in there, Vi," he whispered. He ran to the apartment's door, screaming, "I need some *HELP* in here!"  
A door opened. "I saw it on the news. I used to be a nurse."

Annie forgot about the milk. She wasn't even aware of it soaking into her jeans as she picked up her son. Her little boy. He was in pain and all her medical experience meant nothing. People all over the store were down with the same affliction and it was terrifying. There was no precipitating event. No clue. No *cause*.  
Just screaming and terror and her son... hurting...

_...find them..._  
Sara opened her eyes to the dark grey and asphalt smell of the tarmac. "Someone knows where we are," she said. She sat up.  
Mort was still recovering his senses, but Callisto had already dragged herself towards the nearest sufferer.  
All the people now shrieking in pain were the ones who'd been watching in confusion when the others collapsed.  
It had to *mean* something... but that could wait. Right now, she had to help them.

[1] Yes, Violet Parr from _The Incredibles_ gets a cameo. Huzzah!  
[2] A sly reference to _Four of Two_ by They Might Be Giants. 1:56 is four minutes to two 

~

Violet could barely sit up after that noise in her head, but she managed it. Somehow. She was lying on the mattress near the computer. She could see Brisco's shoes twitching just past the divide into the mouse-sized kitchen.  
There was a woman on the floor nearby. Obviously in distress.  
Whatever had hit her... just hit them.  
Violet recovered enough sense to manhandle the woman onto the mattress and stuff a pillow under Brisco's head. Then she managed to find the radio. "Officers and civillians down at fifth and twenty-second..." she panted. Tears still ran down her cheeks. "I think the whole building's hit... is there anyone *to* help?"  
Silence.  
"This is officer Parr[1], please respond."  
Surrounded by the screams of anguish around her, listening intently to the static-ridden hiss of the radio, Violet closed her eyes and prayed. _God, whatever's going on... make it *stop*!_

Mommy had dropped the milk. It had spilled out all over the floor and soaked into her clothes and hair. Sammy had no idea what to do. There was no-one to help.  
Sammy was so scared he wanted to throw up.  
"Mommy, *please*," he cried. "Please... wake up? Mommy? *Mommy*!"

Good-news, bad-news. Good news, the pregnant lady was *not* experiencing stress-related contractions. The bad news... whatever this was was causing wide-spread panic and fear.  
And the largest number of able bodies was completely unable to even *reach* the largest mass of the stricken. Escape would only cause *more* panic when-if the rest recovered. Assuming that the thing that just struck the real mutants down was the same thing that struck the rest, and that it would be over soon.  
_When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me,_ Sara thought, mind bleak. She went round in a circuit, checking pulses and breathing, waiting for some sign of dire stress that meant - what?  
What could she do?  
What could *anyone* do?

The President of the United States rubbed his head. "Did anyone else... feel.. that...?"  
Everyone else in the oval office was down. Hurt. No sign of any attacker. Clutching at their heads.  
What the hell was happening?

After a subjective eternity, the screams died down. The radio crackled to life, various officers reporting in for information. Lost and alone, they elected to at least not be alone.  
"...parr?"  
She rushed to his side. "Brisco. You're okay? Anything still hurting?"  
"Yeah, I'm indestructable, kiddo." In spite of his bravado, Brisco moaned. "Man, my head hasn't felt this bad since after my first kegger..."  
Next, the woman. "Ma'am? Are you okay?"  
"...not old enough to be ma'am," she moaned. "*Ow*... What happened?"  
"I dunno, I just woke up and everyone was in pain and I couldn't do *anything* and no-one was at Base and, *God*, I was so *scared*..."  
"OmiGod, the *kids*!" The woman ran for the 'phone.  
"...mom..." Violet whispered. She scrambled for her cellular.

"*HEY*!"  
Sara yawped, inadvertantly blending. "I'msorry," she said, possibly on automatic.  
"You got no right to touch me," said the man she'd just been checking. "Stinking filthy mutie!"  
Sara recovered her composure, if not her default colour. "In case you haven't noticed, sir, you are also in here on the suspicion that you are a 'stinking filthy mutie'... I'd watch your tongue, if I were you."  
All around, people were recovering. Getting up. Seeking comfort with whomever they knew best.  
Sara found hers in Mort's arms. Dissipating stress made her weep into his unitard.  
"C'mon, inside," Callisto was barking. "Everyone inside the shelters, *now*! We don't want those assholes to start shooting, *C'MON*! Inside! Hup hup hup hup hup!"  
Sara stored her tears and began gathering and ushering people who were still foggy on the details, lingering behind so others could get clear.  
"Go! Go! Go!" Mort was hustling others along. He picked up a lost little scrap of a kid who was still crying as he propelled the last of them along. "You too, luv. Move. Don' wanna ge' shot."  
Sara belatedly realized he was talking to *her*. Her sluggish feet got moving when he took her hand.  
People inside the shelters went instantly to their chosen bunks. The one place that was familliar amongst the confusion. Children clustered together in wailling balls. Sara and Mort cuddled together around their instant adoptee and let vent to their immediate stress.  
"When you woke up," said Mort, at last. "You said something."  
"Someone knows where we are," said Sara. That noise... it was three words. All mashed together and overlain in a jumble. 'Find them all'. That's it. Nothing more than that purpose. I'm guessing they found us, but..."  
"Why do the other... lot?"  
"There's an extreme illogic, there," said Sara. "They found us. They *had* us... and then they switched sides."  
"Maybe th' boss din't... like the results."  
"Maybe they - whoever they are - are a complete psychopants."  
Mort laughed at that, blessing her with a kiss on her cheek. "Lord love ya, babe."  
The very small child had fallen asleep in her arms. There was something about that level of trust that struck her as supremely sincere. Another part of her found it odd that the supremely impersonal captors had allowed the kids to have underpants, but forbidden the adults - or near-adults - to have a similar privalege.  
"I'd better find Callisto. See if anyone misses this little one."  
"I'll go with," said Mort. "After that lot... you need a bodyguard."  
Sara blushed. "Thank you."

[1] I have no idea what the official rank of rookies is, so I'll be changing this as soon as I know.

~

"...medical facilities crowded to the brim. Even the experts are mystified by what appears to be a very *short* term medical malady. Rumours about another mutant attack are unconfirmed at this time."  
The TV cut to a White House representative.  
"It stands to reason that, if a mutant *is* responsible for these attacks, then that mutant would have also suffered *from* the attacks. As to why half the population was attacked at a time... we are still working on finding all the answers. We have declared a state of emergency, and ask that all citizens please do what they can to remain calm. No-one has been able to find any lasting effects from this attack, and we will be releasing official statements to that fact."  
The off-screen Media barked questions and flashed cameras as they took pictures.  
"Keep in mind that *everyone* on the planet, mutant or human, has been struck down by this. There is no known agenda at this time. Ladies and Gentlemen... I cannot answer your questions, as we do not have the answers ourselves. The President will be giving an official statement tomorrow. That is all."  
Unconsciously, Avery reached out to find the nearest hand to hold. He looked away from the screen to find that everyone in the house had sought a similar comfort without the need for telepathy.

"Four days," said Sara, after the last squeak died from the PA. "Four days and they sentence us without a trial." Now that the kid had been handed off to her temporary carer, Sara's hands twiddled and fidgetted with themselves.  
"Ain't certain," said Mort. "There's people out there... I know. They'll do *something*."  
"...i've missed the sun for four days..." Sara's fingers twitched independently.  
This was more frightening for him than her distance. "You right, luv?"  
"I think I'm drowning under circumstance," there was a worrying look in her face. As if she feared throwing up, yet knew it was inevitable. But this was a more unnamed dread. Something was happening inside her and it had her panicked. "It feels... *crowded*... in my head. My boxes are trembling..." She fought to achieve that familliar stony blankness, but it wasn't working.  
"We'll walk," he said. "That's doin' somethin', right? Long as we're doin'... somethin', you be okay." He guided her outside, consciously walking away from the men with the guns. They were still twitchy, and waving two visible and obvious mutants under their noses was no way to end a bad day. Or their lives.  
"Dissapatory activity is all very nice, Mort, but I have my steam valves and they're blocked by this... *place*. I need the dawn's light and no gawkers and there's people watching *everywhere*... if I only had a *harp*... Or a project. Something to *make*..." Her breathing was becoming rapid and shallow.  
Mort knew such concern in him was wrong, but he couldn't help it. He had to help her. He *owed* her. He needed her. He needed to *help*. "Make words," he said, desperate. "Make a story. Tell it as we... go, eh? Tell me 'bout... 'bout... *Chuckie*. 'Ow'd you ge' 'im?"  
"He was... a sort of science project for the Remedial Ed. class," said Sara. When they passed the halogen glare of the lights, her pupils were pinpoints. She was trembling, and it wasn't with cold. Though cold *was* a factor. They'd have to get inside, soon, or the threat of winter would bite at their bare toes. "A rather impromptu one, though. The class pet had a myriad of babies... we all named them after characters from _Rugrats_. And then their mother abandoned them."  
_And you know how much *that* hurts, don't you, luv?_ Mort kept her walking.  
"I think it was the only time the whole class agreed on something, you know. We flew into research like nothing else. Made up a formula and bottle-fed the little things. We hand-sewed pouches to keep them warm and with us..." she gestured with both shaking hands at her collarbone. "Re-enforced them with wire so the nastier folks wouldn't crush them, and those little baby hamsters... I don't think I was ever in a room so full of collaborative ideas. It was an absolute *flurry*. And at the end of it, we were all mommies... You should have seen him, he was so *tiny*..." A blink. "But then you have. You've been into my albums."  
"I shouldn't 'ave," said Mort. "'S an old, bad... 'abit."  
"More than forgiven, dear. No doubt, the local constabulary are ripping it all apart as we speak. All my secrets laid bare."  
"'Ow'd yer class do?"  
"Only one fatality, owing to a rather determined Senior. He was duly reprimanded and actually sentenced for cruelty to animals. Stole the poor creature and smooshed it." Her eyes teared up. "At least it was quick."  
Mort had never dared care for anything in his life. Any attachment he made, any thing he liked... was soon taken away from him. Pet rats and mice fed secretively in the dark were poisoned by baits or crushed by traps. Stray cats given the few leftovers even *he* couldn't eat were rounded up by animal control. And when he spent too long in the company of birds... the tree they nested in was chopped down for 'sanitary reasons'. Mort had learned hard not to let any little creature near his affections. It was fatal for them. Better for him to look at them as yet another source of meat, than to feel anything and get hurt again. And again. And again.  
And yet, right next to him was a girl who had been just as battered by life as him. She stole and hoarded little moments of positivity like a treasure. She *bonded* with things, animate or not. She cared, and cared deeply.  
Mort had watched her, holding that little girl. Cradling her. Savouring every moment of having a child in her arms... because she knew it wouldn't last and very likely suspected that she'd never have the chance to do so with her own.  
"Yer friends'll look after... 'im," Mort soothed. "C'mon. Lets get inside. 'S gettin' cold."  
"Getting?" Sara smirked, wry. "Dear, my feet are turning into icicles."  
"Better 'urry," he grinned. "Don't want 'em t'... melt."  
There. A genuine laugh. That was better.

~

They shared the same bed, that night, spooned together for mutual warmth under the two blankets they were 'issued' with the bunk-bed.  
Mort swore he got high just sniffing her hair. Such a marvellous drug - the presence of a soul who *wanted* to be near him - lulled him into the deepest sleep he'd ever enjoyed.

Mort snored. An almost subliminal snarl that she was long used to from watching over him in his time of need.  
The most worrying thing, right now, was the slightly possessive male hand lying gently over her left breast. Or rather, her excuse for a breast.  
On one hand, she thought she should feel glad that there was a man out there - correction, in here with her - that liked her body enough to grope it. On the other hand, there were those myriad of lectures about men only wanting *one* thing from a female, any female. Not that mother much expected Sara Louise to attract any *kind* of attention, but if she ever did, it would be the wrong sort.  
And on a third hand... he wasn't exactly groping, anyway.  
His arm embraced her, true, and the hand in question seemed to have ended up there by pure accident. It seemed happy where it was, lightly resting around the curve of her excuse for a bosom... and -oh dear- his thumb had started stroking her. It was through the one layer of clothing she now possessed, but *still*...  
"...lovely," he whispered into her hair. "...beau'iful..." Mort gave heave to a very contented sigh and squeezed her closer to him in his sleep. "...don' ev'r leave me..."  
Sara's eyes grew moist as she watched the darkness. What sort of abused, tortured soul would he have to be to have such dreams of her?  
Why did he even *like* her?  
"...kiss ev'ry scale," he whispered. "...name ev'ry colour... anythin' y' want, luv... anythin'..."  
Sara sucked her bottom lip in to try and stop it trembling. Things like this just didn't happen. Nobody could dream wishful dreams of *her*.  
Hot tears spilled from her eyes. One half reached the pillow instantly while the rest pooled briefly at her nose.  
Things like this did not happen.  
Nobody liked Sara Louise.  
She was useful, and that only barely. Nobody could possibly want her for anything more than fulfilling a basic need.  
Sara covered her mouth to muffle the involuntary sobs. Couldn't wake people up. Naughty girl. Wicked girl. Only serves her right to end up in a freak camp in the first place. Never any good. Never...  
Mort, still buzzing and mumbling in his sleep, found her neck and deposited a very chaste, yet intensely loving kiss near her collar.  
Couldn't happen.  
Couldn't possibly...  
Sara was unable to stop the box bursting, over-full as it was with unshed tears and unwelcome trembles. Her arms tried to fling out rigidly from her sides. Her head snapped back and her breath sucked in with an ugly quasi-slurp.  
She only registered Mort's noise of pain on the edge of her perception. The rest of her was falling deep into terror.  
Not here.  
Please.  
Anywhere but *here*.  
No...

{Whack!}  
"Ow... Whut?" Mort narrowly dodged another blow by sheer instinct. "*Shit*!"  
Sara was convulsing. Noises escaped her that sounded like attempted murder.  
"Anyone 'ere a doctor?" He called into the dark. "I need some 'elp!"  
A thump in the direction of the stairwell. Someone had leapt down from the upper floor.  
Mort barely got hold of each bicep, easing his weight onto her so that she couldn't injure either of them. God, if anyone could see in the dark, this would look *so* fucking bad...  
"The hell are you *doing*?" said Callisto.  
"She's 'avin' a fit," said Mort, voice all panic and confusion. "Dunno wha' 'appened. Ge' 'er legs."  
"But--"  
"*Please*!"  
As if in answer to the inevitable 'why', one of Sara's legs fully extended and caused a nasty splintering noise near the foot of the bunk.  
Callisto swore and moved. Mort could just pick out the shape of her amongst the rest of the rest of the shadows.  
"You *do* know that holding an epilleptic down is *the* worst thing you can do," Callisto grunted with effort.  
"Don't think she's epilleptic," said Mort. "It's somethin' else."  
Underneath him, Sara bucked, causing him to crack his head on the bunk above.  
"Ow. Fucking sod of a cow!" He coughed, of course, at the pain of one word too many.  
"What's happening? Do you need help?" Mort recognised the voice as that of the pregnant woman with the not-quite tumor.  
"Stay th' fuck back," Mort rasped. "'S dangerous."  
To think... a year ago he wouldn't have cared. Not for Sara. Not for any of the souls trapped here. He would never have expected them to care back.  
Someone else arrived from a different vector. Mort sensed hands on top of his that soon drifted off. Sibillant words in another language, soothing and cooing.  
"Dad Méngr, t'atchés uprál u ku ttém mangás atút ta sassaré penás ta sinyán latchó. Pregenás t'avés andré ke mengr jéle. mangás atút ta lamé kerás sa kwa ta kamés tu agá uprál i ki tchikk sar uprál u ku ttém. Dadevés deng u maró per sassaré. Muk ta dzhal li bessahá ta grijém sar lamé mukás ta dzhál u nafél ta grié li vavér amménd. Shigeréng durál tar u xrívje ta níng améng u nafél. Amén.[1]"  
Mort only recognised the last word. He sniffed back moisture in his nose, and mentally cursed a God that would do this to someone like Sara.  
After three repetitions Sara's jerking motions subsided. Her noises quieted. After a fourth, they stilled completely.  
Mort sniffed again, only now aware of the pain flowering in the back of his head. He gradually eased away, sitting beside Sara. "The 'ell'd you do?" he said.  
"This little gaji... holds much evil inside her. Beng made in her mind. Good drives them out. Sometimes, they fight."  
"Please tell me I didn't happen to anyone?" Sara's voice trembled.  
"Minor stuff," Mort sniffed. "Scared th' crap outta... me." He wiped his arm on his sleeve.  
"Who *are* you?" said Callisto.  
"I am known as Emilia[2]," said the stranger in the dark. "My people remember another time when good people were bought inside wire cages by men with guns."  
"The Rom, yes?" said Sara.  
Emilia stiffened.  
"You weren't speaking Yiddish or Jewish, before," said Sara. "And I have something of a knack for languages. Sorry." Sara wriggled, sitting up. "I'm afraid I've only learned, 'Nais Tuke'."  
"Who are you, to see right through me when you see nothing?"  
"Just because I can't see in the dark doesn't mean I can't listen, dear," she said. Mort heard the smile in her voice. "Relax, please. We're all the same behind the wire. Besides, I *know* what it's like to have lies flying around you and the truth ignored."  
No doubt, a source of those many 'fights' Detective Nosey had mentioned before their arrest. Mort found himself nodding. He sniffed. Stupid running nose. "You 'elped," he said. "That's worth more'n what... anyone might reckon 'bout... ya." He offered his hand.  
"I cannot... I am marhime. Dirty."  
"Luv? I'd lick yer feet... even if you'd stood... in dog shit."  
Callisto cackled.  
Emilia's hand was warm. "I suppose... to those men outside... we are *all* marhime."  
"And to the devil with the lot of *those* opinions," said Sara.

[1] The Lord's Prayer in Romani. From http://198.62.75.1/www1/pater/JPN-rom-sinte.html  
[2] Because Rom traditionally have several names in order to combat bad things finding them. One is a name by which the gadje [us] know them, one's their tribe-name, and one is their *true* name, one that's kept secret until they're married AFAIK.

~

 

"It's almost dawn," Sara murmured. "Everyone who can should get some rest."  
Mort made to find a space beside Sara.  
"Not you, Mort. You hit your head. You have to stay awake for an hour, at least."  
A hand felt the back of his head. "That, and you're bleeding," said Callisto. "We have to do some wound-cleaning at least."  
"You're taking him to the taps over the snow?" said Sara.  
"How do *you* know it snowed?"  
"The smell."  
Mort sniffed. He couldn't smell a fucking thing, what with his sinuses tingling and jangling from their collision with her skull.  
"He still needs that wound washed, and we don't have many options, here."  
"We can still improvise." Soft shuffling noises. The indistinct shape of someone finding things in the dark by feel and memory. "I'll need your feet, dear."  
Perplexed, Mort put a foot up by her crossed legs. Something smooth and dry went over his foot, guided by Sara's hands, twisted, folded and finally bound in place by the ankle strap of his unitard.  
He examined her work as she repeated the process. It was white. Cotton. But beyond that...  
"Don't pick at it, dear, it could come undone." Sara snugged the last binding tight. "It probably won't last, anyway, but the point is to last long *enough*. I'm sorry, Callisto, but I've run out of availlable pillowslips."  
"I have one I can use," she said.  
"I have the other," said Emilia in the dark. "Be quick, but be thorough. A little scuffing is better than a lot of blood."  
Soft noises in the gloom, such as those made by someone binding their own feet with a couple of pillowslips.  
Mort let himself be guided to the door.  
It had, indeed, snowed. Shallow drifts formed across the expanse of bitumen that promised more bitter cold to come. He could already feel it leaking into his bones. Mort hated the cold, but it loved him like nothing else.  
"Try not to step in it," Callisto advised. "Stick to the dry parts where you can."  
And that was the last thing he remembered her actually saying. The cold slid into his skull, effecting his mind.  
There was snow in the trough. He remembered staring at it as she plunged his head under the tap again and again. Snow in his face. Cold. Bad.  
Hold it *there*! You have a nosebleed. If you throw it away again, I'm tying an icicle to your face. How many fingers? Damn. Still bleeding. Crouch. Bend forward. Pinch your nose. No, *pinch* your nose. There. Stay still. Quit rocking. Head forward. *Quit* rocking!  
Ouch. Hurt there. Get off. Been good. Never did nothing.  
*Head*. *Forward*. No, you stay still. Look at your feet. *Feet*!  
Blood dripping into the snow.  
Hold your *nose*, damnit! And hold still. Jesus... Ha! There's the bastard.  
*OW*!  
Well, I told you to hold *still*...  
Again, he was plunged under the water. Mort yowled in the process. He'll be good. He'll be good. Never done nothing, and he'll never do it again. Swear.  
Where was Sara?  
Had to find her.  
Hard grip on his arm. Stay on the black. Stay on the black. This way. *THIS* way. Stay on the black. Left. Right. Left... *STAY* on the *BLACK*.  
He wanted *Sara*... Where was Sara?  
Nearly there, now. Come on. How many fingers?  
Uhm... One? One? One?  
A hand down his shirt. Ow! *HOT*.  
Geez, you don't keep a lot of heat, do you? Just a little more. Keep moving, now. On the *black*...  
Door. Inside. Hot, here. He hissed, wanting to go back outside. Back to Sara. But the firm grip pulled him into the heat.  
Let *go*! He had to find *Sara*.  
And she was here. Weren't they outside? How?  
Hot. *Hot* blankets. All around him. Sit up, dear. That's right. Take these wet things off your feet. *Good* boy... Tuck them in, now.  
Vigorous hands, rubbing over him. Fit to wear him away. Mort swore he'd be good, just leave him *alone*... but they never stopped.  
Lightning... no. Flourescant lamps. Flickering on. Hurt his eyes. White things hanging from the upper bunk resolved into damp pillowslips. Four of them.  
Sara was right *there*. Beside him. Making friction burns across his back.  
The buzzing around him resolved into words.  
"...know what it's like, being a heat-hog myself. Cold just seems to creep right in and it's hard to get it to go away." Sara. So glad she was here.  
Emilia had dark eyes and cafe-o'lait skin. She had the look of a mother as she alternately breathed on or abraded his hands with her own.  
She looked... *normal*.  
"Ah. You come back to yourself at last. Wondering if I'm a hidden mutant?"  
Mort nodded.  
"I tell fortunes, I pretend I can see the future," she smirked. "I was far too good at it for my neighbours, so... they report me and I wind up in here. They could not put me away from being Rom. They could not report me for running an illegal business... I was not. They had no noise, no illegal goings on to have me removed. I followed every letter of the law." A bitter laugh. "And then the attack on the White House comes. Every mutant is a suspect... and they suspect me for being a mutant. At last they get rid of their 'unworthy neighbour'." Emilia spat on the floor. "New dawn of tolerance, *HA*!"  
Mort smirked. He remembered that campaign. All colours united together. Very touchy-feely. Except when it came to the matter of those who were blue, green, and any other new hue cooked up by the X-gene. On that point, the government stalled, was stymied, and otherwise hemmed and hawed.  
"There's only so much tolerant men can tolerate," said Sara. "To paraphrase the mahatma."  
Outside, trucks ground and beeped. Something was happening.  
Nobody amongst the assembled quasi-slumberers was inclined to peek outside and see what was happening. At least, not until the indelicate sound of flamethrowers came from the east.  
One bold soul poked his head out. "They're clearing the area near the conveyor belt with the flamethrowers," he reported. "The trucks are putting up those concrete barricade thingies."  
Sara laughed. "Anyone who previously doubted the power of reverse psychology... now owes me a dollar."  
The rest of the captives joined in. It was bleak humour, but they could take what they could get.  
The PA squealed into life. "All prisoners now assemble near the food delivery system. Stand ready for a special announcement from the President of the United States."  
"At least they haven't slid the word 'human' in there, yet," Sara's tone was bitter, but it earned another laugh.  
Everyone filing out wrapped themselves in their single blanket before joining the group game of dodge-the-snow.  
At least the tarmac at the conveyor was warm. If only for a handful of moments. The sun was starting to melt the rest of the snow and the last of dawn's colours faded into day.  
"Five days," whispered Sara.  
They grouped together in cliques. New friends or old, it didn't matter. People with some common thread stuck to that which they knew.  
As some warmth slid gradually back into the day, those gathered under the guns murmured amongst themselves, shifted their weight, and watched the outside.

~

Sara was blowing steam rings[1] by the time the fanfare came to a finish.  
"My fellow Americans... In this time of adversity, we are being offered a moment. A moment to recognize a growing threat within our own population, and take a unique role in the shape of human events..." A crackling buzz, a peculiar sound in the background... and then nothing but silence.  
Sara counted in her head. _...four, five, six, seven, eight._  
"We appear to be having some technical difficulties with the sattelite link-up with the White House. We will return to the Presedential address as soon as this problem is cleared up."  
"Maybe the mutie assassin got his mark," said someone.  
Morbid laughter, which Mort, Callisto and herself did not share.  
Sara listened with half an ear to the 'other news' meant to fill in dead air. Imagining furious technicians sorting out tangles of cables, tapping away at computers and - in general - creating the sort of harassed melee that inevitably resulted from technical hitches at a very important time.  
"And it sounds like the White House is back online. We return you to the Presidential Address."  
Silence.  
_One,_ Sara counted. _Two, three..._  
"..mr President..." someone whispered.  
Tittering broke out.  
The President cleared his throat. "My fellow Americans... In this time of adversity, we are being offered a moment. A moment to recognize a unique opportunity to alter the shape of human events..."  
_Hell-lo... Someone's altered the script._  
"We stand on the brink of a choice. We can choose war. A war against a people we perceive as dangerous - a people who are also our children, our relatives, our friends... Or we can choose peace. The attack, just a few short days ago, was perpetrated by a member of mutant-kind."  
Sara reached over blindly, and found Mort's hand.  
"This mutant... attacker... bore a knife. A knife that had the legend 'mutant freedom now' on a ribbon tied to the handle. This man obviously thought there was no other way to get his message across."  
Their hands tightened their grip.  
"My fellow Americans; the fact that one man felt in such dire straights says too much about the current atmosphere of human-mutant relations. One mutant had the ability to overpower security, and come within inches of murder. I am... eternally grateful that he *chose* not to complete that irreversable goal.  
"We must consider, as a nation, that there are mutants who live their daily lives without any cause to use their uncanny abilities against the human race. We must consider that there are those amongst us who, though they possess the famous X-gene, do not have any mutant ability. There are those who live each day in terror, because of *us*... because of *humans*."  
_Interesting correction,_ thought Sara.  
"We must consider - and consider carefully - our next step forward. We stand at a crossroads, mutants and humans together, and must choose which path we will take.  
"I hope that we shall together choose the path towards peace... towards an equitable arrangement between ourselves, and those amongst us whom we currently fear. To that end, I hereby grant an amnesty towards my attacker..."  
Whatever he said next was drowned out by a joyous yawp from the assembled and incarcerated mutants. One that she, too, had to be a part of. Only later, much later, would she discovered that the man had *invited* his would-be-assassin for an official visit in which the official documents would be officially drawn up.  
The party mood was unquenchable. Somewhere behind the din of mutant celebration and the spontaneous eruption of _This Land is Your Land_, there was a plea from the President for the mutants and assumed mutants in holding facilities to have their constitutional rights defended.  
"...to the gulf stream wa-aa-aters, This land was made for you and meeee!"  
"Good morning," said the President in the lull. "And God Bless."  
Sara put her hand on her heart. "God Bless America,"  
Others joined, "Land that I love. Stand beside her, and guide her... Thru the night with a light from above."  
Some were still dancing to _This Land is Your Land_, some were just jumping around like fools and yawping with glee.  
It was chaos.  
It was marvellous.  
It was colder than Hell and she'd never felt so warm.  
And Mort swept her over backwards and kissed her square on the lips.  
Only in a moment like this, only in supreme and divine euphoria... could she ever accept such a passionate confirmation of their mutual feelings for each other. And especially, Mort's feelings for her.  
"Lord love ya, Sara Louise," he said, helping her up.  
"And God bless us, every one," she chirped. There were trays lining up on the conveyor belt. Hot porridge and cereal and scrambled eggs with a carton of milk for each of them. Sara would forever remember it as the meal of freedom.  
Even though freedom was a long time in coming.

[1] Like smoke rings, only harder to manage. And yes, I can do them.

~

Henry paced when he was on the phone. It was a very simple displacement activity, but it beat the heck out of getting into an interesting equation and missing the actual call through inattention.  
"I'm sorry," said the secretary, "but no-one at this office is willing to take the case."  
Hank crossed off the number on his little list. "Do you know of anyone who might?" he enquired.  
"We're sorry," she said. "but we are not able to give any referrals at this time. Thankyou for calling Hangem, Sicem and Mawl. Have a nice day."  
The fifth pen in as many phone calls shattered in his hand. "...but I have promises to keep," he muttered to himself, wiping the ink off and gathering the shards, "and miles to go before I sleep."  
"You should like, *so* not hold pens when getting fobbed off," said Kitty. "That one almost wrecked the carpet."  
"Company," said young Albert. He was peeking between the curtains, and had been since he woke.  
"It's Ms Munroe," said Avery, flipping between morning toons.  
"It *is* Ms Munroe," Albert grinned. "How--?"  
"She feels different."  
Hank opened the door. "Cavalry at last," he cheered. Then he noticed she was wearing black. Ororo never wore black. Unless... "Who--?"  
"Jean."  
Cold sorrow washed over him. Not *Jean*... Of all of them, he'd have thought her indestructable[1]. "Why?" he asked.  
"She felt it was the only way."  
News circulated as it did, replete with tearful denials and the full compliment of mournful embraces. In a time of loss, companionship was sorely craved. Everyone took it a little differently. All gathered what belongings they had and shuffled into vehicles in a silent gloom.  
Back to their former sanctuary.  
Hank followed Ororo's licence plate in a numb blur. Everything he'd been told by the kids skittered about in his head. Everything he knew danced about with those jumbled facts in a bizarre gavotte.  
And when he got there... the school he knew and loved as a young mutant was a wreck.  
The soldiers had left the ruins as quickly as they'd arrived. Water from Bobby's ice shield still pooled on the floor, mixed with the blood of dead soldiers.  
All gone stale in their absence.  
Someone upstairs was vacuuming.  
Of such domestic details is aftermath made.  
Avery listlessly pulled darts out of the wall, careful not to let them prick him.  
Kitty air-walked over the stagnant puddle, searching for towels and mops.  
Another began opening windows, letting the air in.  
Little by little, each one of them began the chore of restoring their sanctuary to its former welcoming feel. Re-enforcing their home.  
And it *would* be home again.

[1] Side-fling to the many, *many* times Jean Grey has come back from the 'dead'.

~

As Jubillee was fond of saying, there were priorities, and there were *priorities*. Since most of the mess in the foyer had been swept up - or swept up to the point where she started getting in the way - Kitty raced to her room, air-walking through ceilings that became floors, racing along corridors and cutting corners in a way no-one else *could*.  
And that was when she ran into the demon.  
Only in retrospect would Kitty question the little details in her first impression. Okay. Retrospect and heavily sarcastic questioning from Jubillee, much, *much* later in the day.  
He was clinging to the wall as she ran out of it, so she got a really *good* look at the blue face, yellow eyes, sharp, *sharp* teeth, and the multitude of scars.  
An unholy roaring noise only amplified things.  
She started screaming before she'd even fully emerged.  
The demon leaped away from her, crying out, "Heilige sch¸tzen mich!" and incidentally collided with some unexpected statuary.  
It was then that Kitty's eyes picked up the tridactyl hands, the spaded tail, and the cloven feet.  
She screamed again.  
The apparition before her rolled backwards, regaining his feet and reaching for something inside the folds of his coat. "Unreiner Geist! Wer ¸berhaupt Sie und alle Ihre Begleiter sind, die diesen Bediensteten des Gottes besitzen--[1]"  
"What is going *ON* up here?" Ororo emerged from a different pathway.  
Kitty shrieked and ran behind her.  
The thing that the demon thrust out at her was a rosary.  
Ororo stepped forward and turned the vacuum cleaner off, ending the 'unholy roaring'. "Kurt, are you okay?"  
"Is *HE* okay?" Kitty yawped.  
"Kitty, you can phase. He couldn't hurt you even if he wanted to."  
"Was?" said the demon. His arm began to slacken. "She is... one of us?"  
Ororo turned on Kitty. "I *warned* you about phasing through the halls, didn't I?"  
"But--" Kitty protested. "But-- But--" She held a shaking finger in the demon's direction.  
The demon sighed, sagged and turned. "It's all right. I'll go."  
Ororo reached out without looking and trapped him by his wrist. "*No*... you're staying here until at *least* after the introductions. Besides, I need to look at that cut."  
"Cut?" The demon reached up and touched where he and the statue had met. Red blood against skin blue like the night. "Ach... This has not been my week."  
"What *are* you?" Kitty blurted.  
"...three hundred and seventy-four..." he muttered. Louder, he said, "Would you believe - mostly harmless?"

[1] Part of the exorcism ritual 

~

Kitty had gone white and Kurt was instants from balking and running on her. Ororo let her grip on his wrist slide into his hand. His unusual fingers gripped firmly as if to say, _Thanks._  
"Kitty Pryde, this is Kurt Wagner. He was instrumental in helping us."  
Kurt was relaxing in her grasp. "Hallo," he said. "I'm sorry for startling you."  
Kitty's eyes, gone wide, were following the tail.  
"Kitty..." Ororo warned.  
Kurt squeezed her hand and let go, threading his rosary into his vest. Pocket-watch style. "It's all right, Frau. I get this a lot." A mischevious smirk, and the spade rose in front of Kitty's startled face. "Hallo," he squeaked, manipulating the spade like some kind of puppet. "I am Kurt's tail. Would you like to say 'hello' to Kurt? He's back here..." The spade made a pointing motion back at its owner.  
Kitty made a tiny 'eeep' noise and fell through the floor.  
Ororo groaned and massaged the bridge of her nose. "I'm halfway tempted to introduce you in assembly... Get it over with all at once."  
"It takes weeks to 'get it over with'," counselled the demonic teleporter. His tail helped gather the vacuum cleaner. "At least I took care of the glass."  
"And now I get to take care of you. Again. I'm *sure* you know the way to the infirmary[1]..."

There was minor pandemonium amongst the returning students. Kitty's story was getting increasingly fantastic and both Bobby and Rogue were arguing over salient points at maximum possible volume.  
This was highly unnecessary.  
"That is *ENOUGH*!" Scott separated the combattants. "Mr Wagner can't help his appearance and we - *especially* - should not judge him based solely on that." Even though he had a hell of a problem with it, at the moment. He was sure the guy was a decent fellow, *but*...  
So much was going on that he didn't want to deal with and the blue man was just another reminder of who was missing.  
"But--" said Kitty.  
"No 'but's," said Scott. "He was essential in retrieving the Professor and he needs somewhere safe to stay."  
"He's nice," said Rogue. "When ya can get 'im talkin', he spins quite a tale."  
"He already *has* a tail," Kitty argued. "You know? Sticking out of his butt?"  
"It's part of his spine," said Bobby, rolling his eyes. "Everyone makes that mistake. Geez..."  
"He has a *tail*?" said Avery.  
"I thought I like, *mentioned* that," Kitty huffed.  
"I wonder if he's blue all over," said Jubes.  
"*Euw*!"  
Scott sighed and tried to find some small corner of peace. He couldn't deal with this. Not now.

The snow had melted and heat settled into the bitumen by the time lunch rolled around. Some of the crowd around the fence had thinned. Apart from a bristle of cameras filming the fence in progress or the muties, of course. The camera crews never really left.  
Sara was getting worse.  
Nervous tics invaded her usually graceful movements, as a slight stammer invaded her speech. Her fingers played in the air, seemingly independant of each other.  
"Why hasn't anyone come to take any statements? When's our trial? It's not as if we're a flight risk. I haven't seen any lawyers," Sara babbled. "We should have lawyers. Even some just-past-the-bar lawyerette. Something. We have rights. Don't we?"  
Mort kept her walking. It was all he could do. Short of finding Sara a new hobby in this place completely barren of hobby-eque materials.  
"What do you want of me, Mort?" she asked.  
"Wha'ever you'll le' me... 'ave, luv," he said. "F'r as long as... you want t' give... it."  
Her head began tic'ing to the side. "Theoretically... mmm-mathematically... logically... im-mmm-possible. Divide by zero error. I think my universe is crashing."  
Quick. He had to distract her from the potential public fit. "Did you run that... pro-mutie site before ya... found out?"  
"Hmn? Yes. Of course I did. Intolerance is something of a bug-bear of mine. Especially after I looked up a few *anti*-mmm-mutant sites. KKK meets neo-nazis meets all the worst mythos from our hideously racist past. Up to and including ritual cannibalism. Mutant or not, there had to be a positive voice." A twitch of a smirk. "Crying because it's   
alone[2]."  
Another one of her obscure jokes. He laughed anyway. "You get trouble with hackers?"  
"Oh, not after I wrote the whole thing in assembler," she said. "Anyone willing to go to that much trouble deserves the vainglory." She stopped.  
Part of her clothing had caught on the wire. It was some effort to get it loose.  
Sara sighed. "That's me. Always snagging some loose thread on something. If I had a... sewing... kit..."  
Her eyes had gone distant, but not inside. They were focussed far into the distance.  
"Sara?"  
"I recall, mister Toynbee, that you mentioned you can create a self-hardening ooze."  
"Yeh?"  
"So it's theoretically possible to turn a scrap of thread into a needle... and if I have a needle..." she grinned like a maniac. "We can make *alterations*."  
So it was a manic idea borne of pure desperation. Mort didn't care. Sara desperately needed something to *do*.  
This would help her.  
He hoped.

[1] A little dig at all those Kurt-gets-hurt Movie!Fics out there  
[2] Terry Pratchett's description of the vitamin content in a particular fast-food joint.

~

"...so, in order to free the incarcerated, they need legal representation - which few, if any, are willing to provide. In essance, they're stuck in legal limbo." Hank paced, fooling with a rubber band as he did so.  
Xavier could feel the frustration steaming off him. "Perhaps the right to one phone call?"  
"Sources have been phenominally close-mouthed about that," said Hank. He gestured at the enclosure on the news. "They're sealing them off from the outside world."  
"Good *lord*," whispered Xavier. He spotted a familiar face on the television. "The Toad."  
"Yes. We spotted him earlier. Sorry to leave you out of the loop, Charles... it's all been--" he broke off, sighing.  
"I know." Xavier knew implicitly what everyone felt. The general mood hung like a pall over the entire mansion. "The problem is... he doesn't seem to be doing anything."  
"This is a problem?" said Hank. "We know where he is, we know he's... isolated. Without anyone to give him orders, he's essentially neutralized."  
Xavier considered the situation, and what they knew about the Toad. "I'll have to investigate. Later. When things here have been stabilized." A distant shrieking indicated that, once again, someone had come across Kurt, unawares. "Assuming that could *happen* in the near future..."

Sara had thrown herself into things. Currently, she wore a sheet in a sort of toga arrangement while she laboriously picked her former unitard into pieces. "I'll need something to cut with, eventually," she said. "A few second-hand sporks will suffice for impromptu thread spools."  
"Callisto ought t' ask... around," said Mort.  
"Hey. Why am I volunteered?"  
"Everyone knows ya. I disturb people."  
"You're rounding up sporks," she said. "And washing them."  
Mort tossed her a salute. "Righ' oh."  
Sara was almost beatific with something to occupy her hands and mind. He knew she was safe, here and now. Knowing she was safe from further attacks gave him the strength to leave her orbit and go looking for things.  
Odd that he didn't feel so servile with her. He did things because he wanted to help. Not because he felt indebted. Sure, he knew he owed her, but... something about her made it known that such a debt was forgiven.  
The sporks he gathered made an ungainly bundle. It was only when he caught himself rearranging them to be 'prettier' that he realised he was making a bouquet.  
She deserved flowers. Not cutlery.  
Pity nothing would grow here.  
A generous handful should have been enough. He trudged back to the shelter and Sara's work.  
He put the pile of sporks beside her just as she finished pulling a thread out of her work. "One for you," she said.  
Mort was left no other alternative but to wind thread for her. He sat and happily did so. Just for the divine look of peace on her face.

~

"I got Dianne to plead for shoes," said Callisto upon her return. "As for scissors, I found a shaper who wants a crotch insert. Frontal wedgie."  
"Ig," said Sara. "All alterations require the alteree to be nude for at least a day, alas." She handed another thread to Mort, who began spooling. She had her own unitard down to rectangular pieces arranged on her bed. "At least until I have enough to start making extra. There's also a distinct possibility that I'll get in trouble for this, so... let me catch the heat first?"  
"Already done. Everyone's standing well back to see what happens."  
"By the by, what does our shaper shape?"  
"Metal."  
The spork snapped in his fingers. No. He'd have *noticed* if Erik was around. The old fart had an allergy to camps like this. Besides, he'd have been out of here and causing a riot in five seconds flat. Plus the sod was stuck in his hamster cage in the middle of a mountain, somewhere.  
"Dear?"  
Mort shook himself. He'd been so far into a panic attack that he hadn't noticed Sara was talking to him. "Just... reminded of someone I... know."  
"Any relation to Erik Lensherr?" Sara guessed.  
Mort was really, *truly* lucky he wasn't holding anything else, yet. "You *sure* you're--"  
"--not a telepath. Absolutely. Complete dead-head."  
"You're doing a very spooky impersonation of one," said Callisto.  
"Damn straight," said Mort. He shakily reached for another impromptu spool.  
"Just logic," said Sara. "The news of a metal shaper inspired real fear in you, Mort. And there's only *one* metal-shaper I'm aware of who can cause fear in *anyone*, so... I just had to allow for the possibility of equally psychotic relations. You know. Given that the X-gene can be passed along, and all."  
"Far as I know... he don't have kids."  
Sara's face fell. "You were at Liberty Island," she whispered. "That's where you got hit."  
He spooled faster than he ever thought possible. Get it done and get out. That's all he had to do. "Just tell me to... piss off," he said, feeling dead inside.  
This is what happened when he *cared* for anything.  
"Hardly," said Sara.  
Mort froze. "You wha'?"  
"Okay," said Callisto. "Now I *know* you're freaking *nuts*!"  
Sara seperated more pieces into piles. "Mort was... badly used," she said. "I don't think he owes any further allegiance to a megalomaniac who - I'm sorry, dear - abused him."  
"Allegiance, nah," said Mort. "A bucket of fear... definitely."  
"But he can't *hold* you with that. Fear ultimately leads to flight-or-fight. A very poor tool for keeping something, in my opinion." Another thread.  
Mort drank in the feel of her hand against his as he accepted it. "He'll find me."  
"You don't have to go with him. If I can excape my dragon... you can surely escape yours."  
"When the hell did dragons get into this?" wondered Callisto.  
"Shorthand," said Mort. "You ain't met 'er... mum."  
"Fuckit. You two have your own language, *fine*. Just give me the cliff notes when you're done. I need to see how Dianne's getting on with negotiations."  
Mort grinned as Callisto strode out. She didn't understand - couldn't understand - the infectious nature of Sara's personal shorthand. After a while of living in her orbit, you just - picked it up. Or enough of it to work out the rest.  
"Very shrewd of her, you know."  
"Hm?" said Mort, prone to be agreeable.  
"Sending a visibly pregnant woman out to ask for something that everyone obviously needs. Rather devious, actually. They won't be inclined to shoot, and men tend to be subtly scared of pregnant women. Puts us on the home field advantage, as it were."  
"Fuckin' spooky impersonation," said Mort. "Pard'n th' French."  
Sara blushed anyway. "I just put things together, dear. It's not as if I can forget very much, anyway."

Avery smelled popcorn. Someone had taken over the TV. Not that he minded, much. It was just that the night belonged to him and when it did - so did the cable.  
He could see pointed ears on the sillhouetted head in front of the old black-and-white movie, and froze.  
"His bathwater was tepid," said a man on the screen. "Poor Lolita. I fear her married life will be the same."  
The dark shape chuckled.  
Avery would later swear that he never made a sound, but the subliminal gasp and the shifting of his weight must have reached those ears.  
"There's plenty of room for two," said the shape. "And popcorn to spare."  
Well... since he wasn't doing anything but *sitting* there... "How'd you know?"  
He turned, then, showing eyes that glowed in the dark. "These ears aren't just to look pretty, ja?" He had a shy smile. "It's okay. I scare a lot of people."  
"I heard you scared Kitty," said Avery, feeling emboldened by his stillness. "Can you really stick to walls?"  
"Walls, ceilings, floors... it's all the same to me. Comes in handy when there's glass on the floor to vacuum up. I never get any in my feet."  
"And the tail?" Avery was creeping up on him, now.  
"Still permanently attatched," the dark man joked. "I find it useful, so no trying to pull it off."  
He turned the corner, and now had a prime view of the mutant perched on the couch. There was no other word for that pose than 'perch'. At the same time both completely inhuman and yet - what with the tail - utterly logical. The physical oddities of his shape were seen, filed and adjusted to in a matter of seconds. It was weird, but that was how he was.  
"What're you watching?"  
"_The Mask of Zorro_. A classic."  
Maybe in *Germany* or something. "Why'd they have to make the remake in black and white?"  
Mr Wagner levelled a glare at him. It was the sort of Look he got a lot. It said, "You couldn't have possibly meant what you just said, kid." Aloud, he said, "Nein. They made the remake in *colour*. This is far older."  
Avery sat down and helped himself to the popcorn. "So where's the old Zorro?"  
"There is no old Zorro. He decides to become Zorro all on his own. Fighting for good against the corrupt officials, that sort of thing. A sort of Mexican version of Robin Hood."  
"Robin who?"  
"You've never heard of Robin Hood?" Mr Wagner took a deep breath and started talking, movie forgotten. He easily spun a world of dark forests and noble bandits who stole from the rich and gave to the poor... full of derring-do and swordfights and archery and even romance.  
"Yuck," said Avery, when informed about Maid Marion.  
"When you're older, you might not mind so much..." Mr Wagner yawned. Wow. He really *did* have all those pointed teeth. "Ach. Sorry, junge... I really must to bed." He reached over himself as he got up, grasped the back of the couch, and used it to stretch himself into an inverted U. Then he flipped over the furniture to land lightly on his feet.  
"*Coooooolll*..." said Avery.  
"Once again, the Incredible Nightcrawler wows his audience," Mr Wagner bowed theatrically. "Guten Nacht. Perhaps I will share more tomorrow. You remind me, ne?" He turned away and blended right into the shadows as he walked.  
Forget what Kitty said - which was easy, given the downside of his power - Mr Wagner was the *coolest*.  
The movie playing on the screen was something boring and black and white featuring men in suits and women in ball gowns. Avery blinked the channel. What else was on?

~

 

Caroline Garvallo, Social Worker, was allowed in Sara's apartment after the photographers had just about created a mosaic of the entire place. She made sure the hamster was safe, and visited him in Mrs Nezbit's apartment before performing whatever maintenance Sara's place needed.  
"Lemme guess," said Brisco as she let herself in. "You're here about the damn candle."  
Caroline smiled and laughed. "It's odd, I know, but I think Sara would just go to pieces if she even thought it wasn't lit." Wax was getting low, but it had a day to go, yet. She moved the whole thing out to the balcony, just in case she didn't get in in time, tomorrow.  
"Goren tells me she was keepin' vigil," said Brisco. "You know who for?"  
"For whom," said Caroline. "Darn. Now she has *me* doing it." She put a new candle on the sill. "She's keeping vigil for her father. He goes overseas a lot with work and it's for months at a time... during most of which he's incommunicado." A flick of the day planner. "She's had it burning since the move so he can find her, even though he's not due back until... O my goodness..."  
"What?" said Parr.  
"Today. November the eleventh. He's due home *today*."

Sara stopped sewing, looking out into the middle distance. So far, she'd only taken a break for meals, lights out, and the inevitable call of nature.  
"Somethin'?" said Mort.  
"Daddy's coming home." Optomism turned into dread. "I don't have a light burning. How can he find me?"  
"He'll figure it out," said Mort, comforting her. "It's not as if... we ain't all over... the tube."  
"...i don't have a light," she whispered. Her hands had gone slack in her lap. Her work forgotten.  
Mort hugged her shoulders. It was all he could do.

~

Sam Adrien staggered off the plane in zombie mode. Jet lag always got to him when he was on his ulcer meds. Brief paranoid check of all belongings... present and accounted for. Bravo. He lurched towards luggage and collected the wheelie suitcase that held all his other belongings. Now all he had to do was find--  
"Sam!" The warm pink thing currently engulfing him *had* to be Jaquelline. Sara called him 'Daddy' and attempted to crush his ribs. "O Sam... O Samuel, it's been so *awful*..." She sobbed into his shoulder.  
Priorities. Jaquelline had to know she was loved. Sam wrapped his free arm around her and found that little spot just behind her earlobe to kiss. "I missed you," he sighed. And it was true. He missed her dearly. Every time he saw her, every time he went away, he was reminded of the jubilantly enthusiastic and bubbly Jaquelline he fell in love with. Whom he still loved.  
Time and her own philosophy - her family's ideals - had worn her down to a part-time monster wearing Jaquelline's skin.  
He lived for the rare, beautiful moments in which *his* Jaquelline shone through.  
Her scent. The feel of her skin. The warmth of her and the rhythm of her heart... all of these had remained unchanged.  
"O Sam... O Sam it was *horrible*. That *girl* of yours..."  
_Danger sign number one._  
"...she up and decided to be a *mutant*! Of *all* things, she has to be a *mutant*. O Sam. What else could I *do*?"  
And speaking of the other lady in his life... "Where *is* Sara?"  
"I told you. She became a *mutant*. She got mixed in with those *terrorists*. It was so *horrid*. It's all over the *news*. O Sam... I'm at my wits end..."  
Educating Jaquelline about why mutanthood was not a choice would take a long, long time. Especially with this level of hysteria. "Jaquelline. Beloved. Please... I just got off the plane and I'm still high on my medicine..."  
"Of course. Of course. I'm so sorry, it's just that you've been out of contact for so *long*."  
"I tried ringing, but the 'phone was engaged," said Sam. _And for a month and a half, too._  
Jaquelline managed a nervous laugh. "It must have been both of us trying to ring each other. Either good timing or bad, you decide."  
"Later," said Sam. "Right now, I just want to catch up on my sleep and hold you for as long as I can." And his suspicions about the tangled lines could wait until he could think.  
His baby girl was in trouble... and he had a spouse to defuse. Never a good choice.

~

The metal-shaper was an overweight guy called Andrew. So far, he'd altered a metal tray to become a pair of scissors, pins, a container for pins, and now he was changing the unitard zippers with the happy mein of a man who soon would not be feeling pain every time he stood.  
Sara sewed, as did Emilia and a few others who both knew how to handle a needle and understood Sara's shorthand.  
Their clothing was still yellow, but thanks to the lining they at least had a decent supply of underthings. Admittedly, they were all made out of rectangular pieces, but they *worked*.  
None of the guards had said a word about Sara's alterations to her jumpsuit in order to make it a two-piece with an ex-lining undershirt. Nobody seemed to be interested that, one by one, people's shapeless yellow garments gained shape and style.  
Mort felt rather proud that Sara still used his thread-needle, and even wore it like a badge on her jacket. Yet he still hung back from having his own unitard altered. Make no mistake, he was grateful for the boxers, but...  
Something about waiting in the altogether for new clothes made him nervous.  
He'd always hated being stared at, the open curiosity of others once they viewed his exposed body, the suppressed giggles and never-suppressed nasty comments. The mere concept of being so vulnerable to the rest of Sara's sewing circle... made him feel worse than all the times the other kids at the orphanage had stolen his clothes.  
So he waited, lounging on the upper bunk, watching protectively over Sara and observing the proceedings.  
"Do you want to learn how to sew, dear?" said Sara.  
"Nah," he said. "Feel better up here."  
Sara looked up. "Enochlophobia[1]?"  
Nobody else was looking at him. "Acquired."  
"I hear *that*," said Dianne. She paused in her sewing to rub her belly. "Anywhere public... when I was out in the real world... I got obsessive. It felt like people were looking at my - growth... rather than looking at me. Sometimes, I felt like I was just something to haul the growth around, all day."  
"It's the same when you're fat," said Andrew. "People talk to the stomach."  
Emilia laughed. "I had a friend who was very big up here," a gesture at her own bosom. "She had trouble with people with people remembering her face."  
All the ladies laughed.  
"Same problem, opposite situation," said Sara. A motion chestwards. "Obviously. I just test high on forgettability." Her needle never stopped moving. "Ever since... the riot... Well. People *see* me. They can't help looking." A brief laugh that had no humour in it and a great deal of nerves. "Mother always wanted me to be famous."  
Mort reached down to soothe her hair. All the comfort he could extend, right now. And even that took effort.  
Andrew smirked. "You two *sure* you're not a couple?"  
Sara twitched. A violent jerk of her head. "That... doesn't happen to me."  
_I want it to,_ thought Mort. _*God*, how I want it to._  
Andrew gave him a Look. It said everything. He knew. Hell, he'd been there when Mort had failed to resist the lure of Sara's lips... and the miracle of her return kiss. He doubtless knew of the seizure, that night.  
Word like a re-living of _The Exorcist_ gets around.  
The horrid things that came out of her mouth that night, said in another woman's voice, still gave him chills.  
Andrew knew and sympathised. He'd say no more about him and Sara. Especially not to Sara.

The President swallowed his fear. This was, at least to him, the third time that this mutant had been in his office. The only difference, the one that mattered, was that this time, he walked in.  
"Guten Tag, Herr President," he said.  
He'd been expecting a growl. A snarl. Something from the pits of Hades. Not a warm, pleasant voice, softly spoken.  
"Good day, Herr Wagner," he said. It was an effort to shake that hand. He kept thinking how pale he looked against that dark blue skin.  
A smile that was somewhat impish despite the sharp teeth. "You're doing very well, mein Herr... given -ah- previous circumstance."  
He laughed. "I believe I'm the first President to ever shake hands with a would-be assassin." He gestured at the couches. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."  
"And the first President to shake hands with a known mutant," he inspected the couch, and found a place that let him sit naturally despite the tail, which moved some cushions aside for the dark-skinned lady with the white hair that, perhaps, only he and the mutant remembered from his address. All this, he made to look like it was perfectly natural and everyday. "I consider that a step forward, at least."  
_One of a thousand miles,_ thought the President. "Well... let's begin with the amnesty..."

One of the things about Jaquelline's... problem... was that she was obsessive about proof. Sam speed-read the doctor's documents and news clippings as Jaquelline spun it all into a personal plot against *her*.  
It broke his heart.  
"Jaquelline... *Jaquelline*... Please."  
She wound out of her rant. "Sam?"  
"Would you blame Sara if she was born with a hare lip?"  
"What?"  
"Would you blame her for having a hare lip?" he repeated.  
That gave her pause. "It would be a disaster, of course, but... that sort of thing can be *corrected*, Sam."  
"What about something else. Something that couldn't be corrected? Something that made her different from birth - because of her DNA?"  
"I-- I-- I guess not..."  
"Being a mutant isn't something you *choose*, Jaquelline. It's in the DNA. Sara was *born* a mutant. Her change... is just something that happened because of it."  
"She did it to *spite* me!"  
"Sara *can't* have done it on purpose. Just like I can't choose the colour of my eyes..." _...or how much I still love you, no matter what you're doing._ "She needed her parents and you threw her out."  
"She took out a restraining order against me!"  
"*After* you threw her out," said Sam. "I have to ask - did she have to?"  
This didn't sit well with her. "You're taking her *side*!"  
"Someone has to."  
Accusations. "You don't love me at all!"  
Somehow, he retained the essence of zen. "On the contrary. I love you too much. You're hurting yourself by doing this, Jaquelline. You're hurting our *daughter*. Your own *child*."  
"She's no daughter of *mine*, I'm sure."  
"The DNA says otherwise, Jaquelline."  
Threats. "And I suppose you'll want a *divorce*!"  
Even in the calm of zen, tears slid from his eyes. "Never. But if you *must* make me choose between my beloved wife and my cherished daughter... I have to choose the one who needs me the most. Sara needs my help more than you do, Jaquelline."  
Jaquelline was flabberghasted. She regained her balance - barely - with another threat. "If you leave me, I'll kill myself."  
"I'll miss you," he said. His voice was barely a whisper. "Just like I've missed the real you for over a decade. Just like I miss the real you in moments like this one." He closed his eyes. He couldn't look at the body of his wife when he said this. "Death is only one form of potential closure, Jaquelline. Are you sure you want to take it?"  
Jaquelline's only reply was an incohate squeak.

[1] Fear of crowds.

~

The shoes - Ug boots from a cheapie sweatshop somewhere - couldn't fit through the narrow portal made for the food trays. Therefore, the troops on the other side of the cage began lobbing the boxes over the fence. In order to prevent the boxes from falling open in the air, they were held shut by thick rubber bands.  
Sara couldn't catch worth spit, but she was out there, amongst the other able bodies, leaping about and trying to field a box or two. Whooping and laughing with the others.  
Callisto never missed a mark.  
Mort hung back, watching. Not wanting to expose himself by leaping too high. Not wanting to run the risk of being found. Watching the media watching them.  
Was he watching too much? There was little he could actually *do*, what with people around him who could do more without getting shot at... no opportunities anywhere to improve things for others.  
He could help Sara, but only in small, small amounts.  
All in all it was... frustrating.

~

"No way could you have seen Michael Moore out there," someone was saying. "He's incredibly old and that. Does all his agitating from a wheelchair. All you'd have seen over the first row would've been his cap[1]."  
"I'm telling you he was the spitting image of Michael Moore, circa mid-nineties."  
"Then it *can't* have been *him*."  
"Maybe his kid or his grandkid is taking up the business."  
"Does he even *have* kids?"  
Mort let the idle speculation fade into the background as he strode towards the fence. There was still the Media, watching him watching them. But now he was looking for something - unique. Someone who shouldn't have been there.  
The second tier of concrete blocks had been spaced intermittently, so the Media could see in and make sure no further abuses of the law occurred. Mort watched in those gaps as he walked around the perimeter.  
Michael More - circa mid-nineties - peeled off from the assembled observers and matched his pace for two blocks. Then he was Senator Kelly. Then that blonde bimbo Erik had hired, once upon a time.  
There was no doubt about it. Mystique knew where he was.  
He almost wet himself when she elected to look like Erik himself.  
She settled into the guise of a guard and cleared the Media from the court-appointed communication spot. Not that anyone on the outside had used it yet.

[1] They say "not-too-distant future", but I'm allowing for a good gap between now and the time period that this takes place in. Fictional characters, like those from my favourite shows, however, do not age

~

"You're looking well," said the guard in Mystique's voice.  
"Lot better'n I used... to."  
"Did you lose your abilities when you were dead?" she said. "Or hasn't it occurred to you that you could easily melt a hole in this cage?"  
A glance back, to where Sara was amidst the group of fellow inarcerees doing excercises with Callisto in the yard. "Price is too high," he said.  
Mystique snorted. "They're acceptable losses," she dismissed. "Gammas at the most."  
Inside his head, Mort fumed. Magneto and his stupid mutant caste system. Alphas, of course, were those with powers that could be used aggressively. Betas, those with purely defensive powers. Gammas, those with powers that could plausibly be counted as 'useful'... and Deltas were those with useless or next-to-useless powers... or those with purely physical mutations and no powers at all.  
Mort had started out as a Gamma in Erik's eyes, and had done a lot of work to 'rise' to the position of an Alpha... Yet he was still looked down upon.  
"Some of their deaths could prove useful to the cause," Mystique speculated. "But not by much."  
"Woh? Even the pregnant woman?"  
"Especially the pregnant woman." Mystique sneered. "I'd expect this much sympathy if you were still a *Gamma*, yourself..."  
Mort refused to take the bait. "'Aven't been well," he said. He had another pair of eyes to appraise him. In those eyes, he was cherished. "Maybe I made some... new friends."  
"So I've seen. And even though most of them are women... you choose to kiss--" a subtle pointing finger. Directly through his heart to Sara. "--*that*."  
_Poker face, boyo._ "It's my mouth," he said. "I can plant it... on whoever I like."  
The guard's eyes narrowed. And a distinctly *Mystique* smile spread across his features. "Aaaww... You've fallen in *lo-ove*," she cooed. "Erik *will* be interested in her, then."  
Mort did his level best to remain impassive. "She's sixteen."  
The sly grin remained. "So she *is* female. And prime breeding material, too. Erik's always wanted to see a pure second-generation mutant."  
Now it was his turn to echo her smirk. "And 'ow *was* your... little 'oliday in Germany?"  
Mystique-guard stiffened.  
"You remember... way back when. You done a vanish... for a coupla years?" That wiped the smile off her face. Mort didn't bother to gloat.  
Mystique was especially dangerous when she was pissed off. "I see," she iced. "You know the contact procedures - *if* you decide to return to the winning side."  
_Translated: you're on your own until you decide to come begging - *Gamma*._  
"Don't 'old yer breath," he said. "Ducks."

~

"Hey, look! It's a strip show!"  
"Take it off! Take it *all* off!"  
"Tell me when I should avert mine eyes, dear,"  
Mort laughed with the others. Apparently, orders had come in from the top that the incarcerated mutants should not be treated like toxic objects.  
Callisto let out an ear-piercing whistle. "And the shirt, too, soldier-boy!"  
"You are positively outrageous," Sara giggled.  
"I'm old enough to be *allowed* to be outrageous." She let loose a wolf-whistle. "Show us yer pecs[1]!"  
The soldier in question merely resumed his post by the guns.  
As a diversion, it didn't last very long. Nothing ever did, inside the cage. So, with a final chorus of dissapointed noises, the soldiers resumed their former tasks.  
Sara sighed. "Guess it's back to pok-ball," she said.  
The game had been invented after Mort glued together two styrofoam cups for the kids to play with. A combo of hacky-sack, soccer, and God only knew what else, it had taken off as a welcome break from staring at the wire.  
Anything was a welcome break from staring at the wire.  
Even Mort had submitted to getting his jumpsuit altered, since Sara bribed him with nearly-thermal undershirts. They were improvised from the lining but they did their job.  
"Not so fast," said Callisto, indicating the tidal sweep of cameras zooming away from their spots. "Something's up."  
"Would the mutant committee please report to the designated communications window," squawked the PA.  
"Something *big*," said Sara. "They usually chat to us over here."  
"By the left," ordered Mort. "Harch![2]"  
They struck up their irreverent theme song along the way. "O we got itty bitty titties and we made us a committee. If you ask us why, we've nothing much to saaaaayyyy... We remain in the committee, tho' we know that it's not pretty. There's nothing else to do so here we staaaayyyy... O life here can be shitty, in the mutancy committee..." the girls trailed off, leaving Mort to rasp, "What we'd really like is to be given paaaaayyy..." before he, too, noticed who was at the gate.  
The President of the United States of America.  
Callisto saluted. Sara curtseyed. Mort gave a halfhearted wave and gravelled, "Wotcher."  
The President sprained something trying not to laugh. "Good morning. I take it you three are in charge?"  
"Oh, no. The guys with the guns are in charge," said Sara. "They usually are."  
Serious servicemen behind the President now sprained something trying not to laugh.  
"We just try to arrange things," said Callisto.  
"Make it comfier," said Mort. "Don't suppose ya got a few heaters on yer?"  
The President considered this. "No... but I can enquire about fulfilling some basic needs. If I can inspect the facility?"  
"Um," said Sara, holding up a finger. "Isn't that like the guard asking the prisoner if he can enter his cell?"  
This time, a dignified chuckle. "Somewhat," he allowed, "But I've been informed that some mutants can be more than dangerous, given the right incentive."  
"Believe me, sir," said Callisto, "we all have vested interest in your continued survival."  
"You can bring your goons," added Sara. "Alas, we don't have any tea."  
Sometimes, it was hard to tell if Sara was being serious or not.

[1] Were the gender roles reversed, it'd be 'show us yer tits'.  
[2] British drill sergeants say this instead of 'march'.

~

Sam smirked at the parade on the TV. The President followed the three mutants. Sara was showing off the enclosure in a parody of a real-estate agent. The security attachment was following the President, and several aimless incarcerees were following the goons.  
He gave the rest a handfull of minutes before they were all trailling around to see what happened next.  
"Mr Adrien?"  
"Hm? Oh." He managed to laugh. His boss would see him now. "Thanks, Em."  
The office hadn't changed. Greg Abernathy rarely changed any kind of decoration in his office, save for a cycling of the occasional kid's drawing that looked particularly interesting.  
"Sam!" Greg grinned wide. "I thought you'd be on family leave."  
"Considering where my family *is*, I thought I'd talk with you," said Sam. "That's my daughter on the news, right now."  
Greg's face fell. "The greenish girl?"  
"Sort of aqua," Sam corrected. "But I wasn't thinking of stopping at Sara. All the assumed mutants need help."  
"You can't defend *all* of them, Sam... There's enclosures like that all over the country."  
"That's why I need *your* help," said Sam. "It so happens that we have law firms all over the country... a change in policy, a few ground-breaking cases... we'd make history."  
Greg leaned on his desk. "Damn, Sam... this is more than a handshake on the news."  
"That's why it needs to be done," said Sam. "The journey of a thousand miles *starts* with a single step... but it needs more of them in order to finish it."  
"It's economic suicide," Greg argued. "Once word gets around that we're sympathetic to muties--"  
"The mutie market will come to us. So will others who sympathise with muties. In the end, we only lose the bigot population. Did we really want them?"  
"The bigots have the money, Sam," said Greg. "It's what keeps you in a job."  
"It's also why I'd be good at this one," argued Sam. "I help people not to be afraid of the other guy. Give me thirty cases, Greg. Thirty cases and I'll bet the courts just open the gates and let them walk away."  
Greg looked away. He always found it hard to look at Sam when he Believed in something. "Thirty cases at random. Someone else defends Sara."  
"Someone *good*."  
"As if I'd let anything else happen."  
Sam seized his hand. "Done."  
"I certainly have been...[1]" Greg sighed. "How do you always talk me into these things?"  
"Constant practice?"

"And these are the spacious, open-plan bedrooms," said the tall one.  
The green fellow had stuffed his sleeve in his mouth to stifle the giggles. The one-eyed woman provided the real-world additions.  
"It gets *cold* in the night," she pointed to the corrugated iron. "No insulation means no protection when the temperature drops. And more than a few of us are sensitive to low temperatures."  
"You should see Mr Toynbee first thing in the morning," said the tall one in a rare moment of seriousness.  
"Yeh. Not exactly at the helm," he tapped his head. "Sara's gettin' the same way."  
"I only forgot my shoes *once*, dear."  
"Yeah, but you need a minder in the snow," said Callisto. "If I had a nickel for every time I had to herd you and your breakfast back indoors..."  
The tall one shrivelled in place. "I've never been good when the cold gets to me... it's just - never been this bad before. Mayhap a lack of insulation?"  
"We're all lacking insulation," said one-eye. "And when you look at it, most of us wouldn't even *be* here if it wasn't for their physical appearance. That's discrimination above and beyond the call of duty."  
"Well, I have some good news on that front for you," said the President. "A law firm recently elected to defend you."  
"Abernathy Worthington Incorporated?" said the tall one.  
One of the security men reached for the security of his weapon.  
"Yes," said the President. "Are you...?" he gestured at his head.  
"I keep *getting* that question," said the tall one. "It's just that I know someone who works there... He's very persuasive when the mood suits him."  
The green one looked intensely jealous. "Friend of yours?"  
"Lifelong," the tall one grinned. "He's my Dad."

[1] Rehashed _Goon Show_ joke. Look 'em up. They funny.

~

 

There was a game of pok-ball in progress when the tour party emerged. The President watched with a mixture of confusion and delight.  
"I've seen this on the news," he grinned. "How do you play, exactly?"  
Callisto clapped Sara on the shoulder. "Show the man, sky-high. You, too, Mort." She waited until they were both out of earshot. "Mr President - a private word?"  
The leader of the free world gave a nod to his security guys, who gave them space. To anyone else, it looked like she was explaining the game during a moment of relaxation. But this was more urgent business.  
"Strictly between you and me, sir, some of us aren't doing too well in the cage. Sara's about the worst," she said.  
"She seems in fairly high spirits to me..."  
"That's the problem. It only *seems* like high spirits, but - she makes her own entertainment... usually at other people's expense. I give her half an hour, tops, before she realises exactly *who* she's been wisecracking to and implodes."  
A sidelong look that barely concealed alarm. "Please tell me you don't mean that literally?"  
"It's a mental thing. She's stressed out beyond belief, sir. Please. You *have* to be here to forgive her when she wakes up to herself. We've been lucky, keeping her seizures out of the public eye, but--"  
"She's epilleptic?"  
"Not... exactly. It's hard to explain without knowing her, sir. All I'm certain of is that they're stress-related. Giving her something to do... a method of play... they're stopgaps and everyone here knows it. She's done a lot for everyone here and she's completely unaware of it and... damnit... She needs better help than we can give."  
The President nodded. "I'll see what I can arrange," he said. "And now, the press expects me to join in. Basic rules?"  
"Keep the ball in the air. If you *must* use your hands, use the back, like you'd punch a volleyball. You break the ball, you owe Mort a dollar."  
"He expects to collect?"  
"He's keeping a tab."  
The President boggled briefly, but boldly stepped forward and had a go. The cameras loved it.

"Thanks for seeing me, Professor."  
"Thankyou for coming," said Xavier. "It's rare indeed that we meet parents with a tolerant nature."  
"Parent," Sam corrected. "My wife has... *Views*."  
Xavier nodded. "Quite a few parents have Views... most of them based on misconception and myth that are... somewhat hard to dispel."  
"I've tried the DNA primer, myself," said Sam. "Genetics and You. It worked right up until the X-gene got into the mix... but we clearly digress. I'd like to place my daughter in your school. As soon as possible after she's cleared."  
"Cleared?"  
"Of the mutant conspiracy," Sam was momentarily distracted by the contents of a bookshelf. "Sara was one of the many scooped up in the initial panic... as if every mutant alive was responsible for the attack." He tisked and rolled his eyes. "Those who failed to learn from history have more or less repeated it," he sighed. "And will probably continue to repeat it for quite some time until someone hits them upside the head with a clue."  
Xavier laughed. "Some *have* learned, Mr Adrien. The nation *admits* that the initial sweep was an error. Many even regret contributing to it."  
"But a very rare few are willing to defend them... so far."  
"Another thing we have to thank you for," said Xavier. "We were beginning to lose hope of finding someone to help free them legally."  
"I'm used to pushing boulders uphill," said Sam. "Sara *needs* this place. Somewhere she can just - *be*... without judgement. Somewhere she can expand to the limits of herself, not the limits someone else puts on her. From what I've seen - this is the best place for her."  
"We'd love to have her here," said Xavier.  
"Ah. You haven't seen her permanent record, then."  
"On the contrary. I've examined it with great interest. The gelatin cameo gallery rather stands out in my mind."  
"Really? Most people pick the July ice capades... or the Noodle Incident[1]." Sam found delight in a small tchotchke lurking amidst the accumulated tools of academia. "The Noodle Incident's remarkably popular."  
"I was considering the event in context," said Xavier. "The school counsellor sent a note?"  
"*Ah*. That one." He quoted, "'It would be sooner possible to carve jello and nail it to the wall than it would be give Mr Essel--' long story '--the psychological help he so clearly requires.' Well, I suppose Sara did her part..."  
"Mutants regularly make the impossible... more than likely. Finding a student willing to *accept* that from the beginning is a rare and cherished gift."  
"Sara's the sort of girl who'd do ten impossible things before breakfast[2]," Sam smiled at the memories. Then realised that others might not find it so endearing. "You'd better consider that a warning."  
"I think we're more than prepared."

"Good afternoon, Miss Adrien. I'm Jenny Adler[3], your attourney." They shook hands.  
"Nice job covering the flinch," said Sara. "I can understand it completely."  
Ms Adler sighed. "I'm still... getting used to a lot of things."  
"Am I Thing One, Thing Two[4], or somewhere down the list?"  
She blushed. "I don't keep lists. Um. Okay..." she shuffled papers. "Prosecution's going to have trouble proving the whole conspiracy plot... they'll probably bury it in the middle somewhere. The charge we should be worried about is Incitement to Riot."  
"Why? It's not as if I stood in front of a crowd with my face off and said 'victim here'."  
"No, but you were in a very public arena when your face *did* come off. Considering the negative atmosphere regarding mutants... it doesn't look good."  
"It was an *accident*," Sara protested. "I didn't go out there and tear my face off. It came unstuck. That's the difference between an episode of Tourette's in a church and a KKK march through the 'hood."  
"And speaking of episodes..." Adler flipped a page. "Are these seizures of yours in any way preventable? The last thing I want is for you to -ah- succumb in the middle of a courtroom."  
Sara went stony-blank. "You saw that."  
"Half the country saw that. The President was heroic. *You*... are a potentially unstable mutie threat."  
"Perhaps, but only to myself." Sara shrugged. "My steam-valves have been clogged since they incarcerated me. I can't vent. Just let me *play*... four hours a day. I think I can cope, four hours a day, even without the sun. Just let me have a harp, please. I think I can degauss with just a harp." Her fingers, unbidden, trembled for strings that weren't there. She stilled them with great effort.  
Adler blinked and stared. "Oooohhh... kay..." she drawled. "We might even be able to use this. Maybe. If I had a handle on the Prosecution's strategy..."  
"They're going to use my past against me. Dangerously unbalanced element... kick in a few unprovable mutie myths for flavour, and definitely reference a few of the more colourful episodes from my permanent record. Paint me as black as they can, because they don't have a real case to prove."  
"How--? How did you know that?"  
"Wouldn't you? If you were prosecuting me?"

[1] Obligatory _Calvin and Hobbes_ reference.  
[2] I think it's in _Alice Through the Looking Glass_ that the Red Queen believes in 'ten impossible things before breakfast'.  
[3] Complicated and obscure side-fling. There is an ancient, *ancient* comic called _Jenny and the Pirate(s)_ which I'm sure only my folks remember by now. Now, since I couldn't find any good synonyms for 'pirate' on thesaurus.com, I made the same 'mistake' as the nurse in _Pirates of Penzance_ and looked up 'pilot'... which I then translated into German for a nice-sounding last name.  
[4] Seuss reference. If you don't get it, go read _The Cat in the Hat_.

~

It was tough enough to find someone who hadn't seen or heard of the news, given its ability to pervade society at large. It was harder to find someone who didn't express some kind of opinion about it. The toughest thing was finding someone who knew the right answer to Sam's killer question.  
"Are you afraid of mutants?"  
It was the sort of question that had most potential jurors walking out the door with a firm thankyou and a neutral farewell[1].  
It was the sort of question that had the Prosecution seriously considering people who turned up in Starfleet uniform or Jedi robes.  
It was the sort of question that the Prosecution attempted to get him to stop bloody asking, damnit.  
"Your honor," said Sam. "This is a case of a mutant being on trial for *being* a mutant. We *have* to make sure that the jury is not going to be afraid of the defendant."  
Judge Scheindlin[2] raised an eyebrow. "Considering the racist nature of the case... not to mention the American Constitution... I'll have to allow it. Proceed."  
The Prosecution saved him the trouble of asking on the next potential juror.  
Sam smirked. He had to wonder if Jenny was having this much trouble.

She called the harp 'Lorraine'. Jenny had found out that it was never a good idea to ask why. Whys never got good answers. Whys *multiplied*. Questions like, "Why do I have to observe a four-hour solo harp recital?" got answers that involved a psychologically unstable defendant and a rich source of long, string-like objects that formed a potential source for in-custody suicide.  
Pointing out the fact that this was the same prisoner who altered most, of not all of the unitards by unpicking every single availlable thread and re-sewing them in a different configuration - got a long, hard glare.  
Asking why the hell the judicial system was interested in potential suicide *now* was just damn pointless.  
On the upside, at least, was the fact that she could *play*. It provided a pleasant background for the necessity of ploughing through the relevant documentation and readying a viable defense.  
_Hello... Witness for the prosecution is her *mom*..._ Step one, bring up the restraining order. Step two...[3] Jenny paused to think. Ah yes. Hostility against the defendant, history of mental abuse that has caused the current psychological instability and stress-related seizures. Motion to exclude said witness on the basis that she may even endanger her client's health... Step three... if all else fails, treat witness as hostile.  
Or better yet, let her bury herself in anti-mutant furforal, excercise the right to re-call the witness, and then put a genetics expert on the stand to blow Mommy-dearest's statements the hell out of the water. Preferably in laymen's terms. *Then* re-call the mother and ask her if she wishes to stand by her former testimony. Paint her as a bigotted, abusive bitch.  
_Note: check out the household help and ask for dirt... but ask nicely._  
Sara, still improvising on the harp, said, "If you want some really nasty footage, you'll have to tell Ray I said 'it's time for the truth to come from the woodwork out'... those exact words. Ray's been trained to be discrete - but I know where his sympathies lie."  
"Are you absolutely sure you're--"  
"Not a telepath," said Sara. "Why does everyone keep *asking*?"  
"Because you're acting a lot like one. How the hell did you know what I was thinking?"  
"The restraining order's the only legal document in my permanent record," said Sara. "And since you have two thick folders with only *one* legal document..."  
"It could be someone else's permanent record."  
"Not when you're humming snippets from the _Mommy Dearest_ musical[4]."  
Okay. The kid had a point. And she could read people like a book.

[1] A parody of the line, "a firm handshake and a fond farewell"... something I picked up from somewhere or other.  
[2] No relation. Honest. Really. *snrk* Pfffftttt... BWA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA...  
[3] _South Park_ side-fling. Remember the episode with the underpants gnomes?  
[4] My future is a sick, sad world.

~

Sam had had to come for this part. He needed to see. Jenny had told him about the secret footage. The footage Jaquelline had ordered destroyed. The footage Ray and Sara both kept secret.  
Sam remembered insisting upon the best securicams money could buy, for the safety of his family. Full audio. Full colour. Motion activated.  
It had captured every foul word coming from Jaquelline's mouth. Every abuse. Every nasty psychological ploy... until Sara nearly cracked her head open on the tiles from a severe stress-induced fit.  
"An accident," Jaquelline had said at the time. "She slipped and fell."  
Bologna.  
When the lights came back on, Jaquelline was looking supremely flustered, Sara had turned to a statue, and not one member of the jury were willing to believe a thing she said any more.  
Jaquelline found him with her eyes. Was the fear in them true? Was *anything* true?  
_You *hurt* our only child,_ he thought in her direction. _Our beautiful baby girl... *WHY*?_  
She was no telepath and neither was he, but she winced and put on her best pleading face.  
He swore he heard her whisper his name.  
Sam shut his eyes to her, turning away quickly. Walking away with leaden feet and wet eyes.  
He'd known that there'd been friction between the two of them, that had been hard to miss... but this? This was *heinous*.  
No wonder she referred to "the Gorgon" in her blogs... this woman turned little girls into stone. Tore grown men's hearts out and split them in two.  
To think... he'd loved Jaquelline for being the *least* extreme of her sisters. For *overcoming* most of the foibles of her family.  
_...a whole family of Gorgons... *God*..._

Well. That had been intense.  
Sara let herself come up for air during the genetics and mutation primer, doodling gene chains on the legal pad she'd been given to doodle on. Interesting that, while partially submerged, some part of her had drawn her mother as Medusa. Toxic symbols filled the speech bubble.  
_My what an interesting subconscious we have. Papa Freud would have a ball._  
Behind her, completely unheeded, a bald man in a wheelchair smirked.  
The expert was putting on a nice show for the plebs in the jury box. It would have gone better with a catchy jingle. For some reason, she riffed on the _Duff Beer For You_ song from an ancient _Simpsons_ episode.  
_The X-gene is cool... the X-gene is fun... the X-gene means no control for an-y-one... Nah._  
The man behind her made some effort to wipe the smile off his face. Sara caught the motion in her peripheral vision as she shifted in her chair and looked.  
He waved. An almost subliminal 'hello'.  
Sara raised an eyebrow. _An Englishman, a Scottsman and an Irishman walk into a bar,_ she thought. _You'd think *one* of them would have seen it._  
Hand over the mouth. Stifled snort.  
_AHA! Now *you*, sir, are a telepath._  
_Yes,_ said his voice in her head. _I'm Professor Charles Xavier. I just dropped by to see how you and some of your fellow mutants are doing._  
_Just the mutants?_ Sara 'said', careful to turn back to her doodles and half-bored posture. _Or are you only after the partially guilty?_  
The presence in her mind seemed momentarily taken aback. _I must admit, I had only thought of offering the shelter of my school to those who needed it..._  
_There are 'normal' humans inside the cages, too, sir. Those who walk out may not have any place to go when they're released. Mutant-human relationships have to start somewhere... and why not begin with the ones who automatically have sympathy?_  
A silence both profound and deep.  
_Your father was right,_ Xavier 'said'. _You *are* a very rare individual. Thankyou... for helping me see._  
His presence left. Sara didn't need to peek to see that he was leaving the courtroom, though she did take a good glance at his entourage. And what an *interesting* entourage he had.  
Birds of a feather, indeed.

~

In a quiet little cafe, usually chosen by discrete people for discrete purposes, one man speaks too loudly - thus gaining momentary attention.  
"You can *not* be serious!"  
The gathered discrete stare at the man with the red sunglasses, then turn back to their own business when no further theatre occurs at the table.  
Xavier merely tented his fingers and waited until Scott sat back down. "We have to allow for the possibility that some more... open-minded humans may wish to work with our students. We shouldn't turn anyone aside just because of their race."  
"*Why*?" said Scott.  
"Why not?" Kurt took the words out of Xavier's mouth. He was currently at extreme ease and sliding into boredom, judging by the way he was balancing cutlery on his fingertip. The holographic disguise he wore *should* have made him unnoticable... except he'd figured out the controls in a scant few seconds and set it to a cross between Cary Elwes and Errol Flynn. "I worked with humans my entire life. Stopping now seems such a shame, ja?"  
"Life ain't like a circus, flyboy," grumbled Logan.  
"No? So why are there so many clowns?"  
Ororo laughed behind her hand.  
"It's *dangerous*," Scott persisted. "Who knows if we're letting in another Stryker?"  
"Ah... That would be me," said Xavier. "You seem to forget that you're sitting next to the best background-checking source availlable."  
"Not to mention the fact that a few of our students would test their resolve," added Ororo.  
"Some of 'em been testin' *mine*," said Logan.  
"Really?" said Kurt. "They never give *me* any trouble."  
"That's 'cause you're the *entertainment*," the burly man snarled.  
"Is it written anywhere that I'm not allowed to do things with a little flair?" said Kurt. He flipped the fork in the air and caught it neatly. "Atchung. Lunch."

~

Sara watched, emotionally numb, as her mother stumbled and fumbled into a complete breakdown in the court.  
_This is how our Dragons die,_ she thought. _Not with a bang, but a whimper._  
On the stand, her mother tried in vain to throw all the blame on 'that girl' - Sara. How it was Sara who deliberately and purposefully became the antithesis of a perfect daughter. How *Sara* destroyed all of Jaquelline's dreams. One by one.  
How it was *Sara's* fault that she, Jaquelline, couldn't give Sam a male heir like she was supposed to.  
_Wait. What?_  
"I tried and tried," Jaquelline sobbed, "*four* years... and every time, *SHE* did something that... that... caused a miscarriage..."  
All the hospital visits. All the effort of being a brave little girl for Mommy. Neither she nor Daddy had said a thing about *why* she was sick in hospital.  
Ms Adler whispered in her ear, "You know anything about this?"  
"Not before today. I always thought her alcohol problem lead to interesting ulcer complications. I know she enrolled in the AA when I was four... without much success."  
Ms Adler requested a recess to gain evidence for the court and to round up a counter-witness. Sara told her where to find the relevant journals from Sara's point of view, where mother's record-box was, and the number of their family doctor.  
After that, she was dragged back into her holding cell until recess was over.  
The only positive point to *that* part was Mort was there. Daddy had evidently paid for a very nummy suit. She'd hold him, and snuggle in that delicious outfit and the arms of the man who wore it... except they were in seperate cells and there was a hallway between them.  
"You're takin' your time," he said. "I came *in* and you were waitin' for some court thing. Tell me the jury's out?"  
"Mother's making things awkward." Sara leaned on the bars. "Dragons never go down easy. You?"  
"No witnesses for or against, a waterlogged booklet that may or may not 'ave been me passport. Legal argy-bargy back an' forth. Bit of a mess on the witnesses - I was the only one. Done and sold in a day, luv. Me jury's out righ' now."  
"Luck and fortune find you, dear," she said. "Mother sprung some dirty laundry on us. She *claims* I sabotaged all potential siblings in utero."  
"*God* I could fucking kill that woman..." Mort snarled.  
"Don't. The best fate for her is to let her lie in the hole she dug," Sara traced an interesting patina on the bars with a fingernail. "Once Dr Nemertea[1] gets on the stand about the whole thing, the bubbles shall mark where she sank." Sara sighed. "No more deceptions. No more vitriol. No more rants... soon."  
"Luck and fortune find yer, luv," said Mort. "You've needed it for a bloody long time."

"Twists and turns," said Kitty. "This trial's becoming a soap opera."  
"Naw, it's only this witness," said Jubillee. "The woman's a dog's mother."  
"It's worse than the OJ trial," said Hank.  
"The... what now?" said Avery.  
Hank sighed. "I feel *so* old..."

"Mr Adrien. Once again, I see your smiling face next to yet *another* suspected mutant terrorist... I'm starting to wonder if you'd rather send roses."  
"I just like to keep busy," said Sam. "It prevents boredom."  
Judge Scheindlin drummed her fingers on the desk. "Well, *I'm* starting to get bored. Does the prosecution have any hard evidence?"  
"Um. No, your honour."  
"Not even a positive indicator for the X-gene?"  
"No, your honour."  
"Witnesses?"  
"Arresting officers, Ma'am."  
Judge Scheindlin sighed. "Fine. Call them up. *I'll* ask the damn questions. Let's hope it streamlines things..."

Jenny had a stack of medical reports with executive summaries on her desk. She had journals neatly piled nearby. She had Sam notified should his presence be required.  
And she still had to face the Gorgon.  
_Great. Now the kid has *me* doing it._ "Mrs Adrien. You remember Sara's birth?"  
"Of course. It was extremely difficult. I sweated and strained for *hours* to give life to that ungrateful girl and--"  
"Your honour..." sighed Jenny. "Permission to treat Mrs Adrien as a hostile witness?"  
"*Please*." The judge levelled a glare at Mrs Adrien. "You will constrain your answers to 'yes' or 'no', or find yourself in contempt. Understood?"  
The woman seethed. "Yes."  
"According to these records, you spent sixteen hours in labour... not including the day and a half of early contractions that were too far apart to admit you to hospital. Is that correct?"  
"Yes."  
"Was Sara a big baby?"  
"Yes."  
"And yet you refused a caesarian."  
"Objection... relevance."  
"I'm proving state of mind, your honour."  
"Overruled. Answer the question, Mrs Adrien."  
"Yes. I refused a caesarian."  
"Please read from your private journal, dated the day after Sara's birth." Jenny handed her the book. Handily open at the right entry.  
"I did it," Jaquelline read. "I fought the odds and I won. I have the most beautiful baby girl in the whole world, and *I* bought her into the world. Not the doctors. Not some surgeon. *Me*. Every time I look at her, I feel so proud. My lovely little trophy. *My* prize..."  
"Thankyou," said Jenny, taking the book back. "Do you recall what the doctors told you after you finished writing..." she checked for show, "*five* pages like that?"  
"Yes."  
"Did they give you bad news?"  
"Yes."  
"They told you that, if you wanted to have a second child, you had to be extremely careful... didn't they?"  
"Yes." Smoke almost curled from her ears.  
"Do you remember the precautions they gave you?"  
"Yes."  
"Please list them for the court."  
"I couldn't... try... for two years. I had to stop drinking. I was on a special diet and a regime of pills... and I had to avoid stress."  
"And during this time, you had to submit to physical exams to ascertain your health, am I correct?"  
"Yes."  
"How old was Sara when you started drinking to excess?"  
"OBJECTION!"  
"Overruled."  
"She was... eleven months old, wasn't she?"  
"Yes."  
"Was Sara a talented child at eleven months?"  
"No."  
"Yet I have here a number of reports saying that even at that age, she was precocious. Walking, trying to talk, working things out... I ask again, and remind you of the penalty for perjury... Was Sara talented?"  
"Yes."  
"Was she talented enough to unlock the liquor cabinet?"  
A long, slow-burning pause, during which Mrs Adrien glared burning liquid death at Sara. "No."  
"Was she talented enough to make you a drink and bring it to you?"  
Were the laws of physics different, Mrs Adrien's restrained fury would have caused her to spontaneously combust. "No."  
"Could you read another journal entry, Mrs Adrien? Dated two weeks before her first birthday."  
"I'd like to plead the fifth."  
"Mrs Adrien, you are not on trial," said the judge. "Read the journal or a bailiff will."  
Mrs Adrien growled under her breath, and refused to take the journal.  
"Bailiff?"  
He took it and read, "I don't know how she does it, but Sara Louise found every cushion in the house and piled it up in front of my drinks. She almost buried the cabinet, this time, and fell asleep on one of the big ones before I found her. Sara woke up just as I finally got it open and said, 'No, Mommy. Yucky.' So I told her I needed it to settle down and she said, 'You drink milk'. She was so sweet, like a little angel looking after me. I had to add milk to my glass to make her calm down."  
"Thankyou." Jenny took the journal back. "You *added* milk to your alcohol."  
"Yes," Mrs Adrien growled.  
"At which point did Sara *make* you drink alcohol? When was it *her* fault?"  
"I-- She was always doing things..."  
"When did Sara *make* you disobey your doctor's orders?"  
"I *NEEDED* IT! I could never *cope* with whatever she was doing! She was a little freak then, and she's an even bigger freak *NOW*!"  
The entire jury was glaring venom at the woman.  
"No further questions," said Jenny.  
"Prosecution?"  
"We have no questions."  
"Witness may step down."  
Mrs Adrien had to be escorted away from Sara by a bailiff. "If you think this is the end..." she hissed.  
Sara looked her in the eye, almost emotionless, and said, "You have no power over me[2]."  
Jenny half expected the Gorgon to melt.  
The gavell slammed, making Sara jump. "This court is in recess until tomorrow morning," said the judge. "I think we all need a break."  
"Amen," whispered Sara.

[1] ...but they call him Dr Worm ;) They Might Be Giants obscure side-fling #44958...  
[2] _Labyrinth_ fling.

~

Detective Goren proved to be almost entertaining. He seemed to believe that Sara was innocent of all charges and showed no remorse for mangling the Prosecution's case to hell and gone.  
Sara wanted to hold up score cards, but she satisfied herself by drawing them in cartoonish form amongst her doodles.  
"And you had a chance to examine Sara's journals?"  
"What I could read of them, yes," said Goren.  
"What you could *read* of them?"  
"After a certain point, Sara became aware that her journals were being read by -ah- unwelcome eyes... so she encoded them. Once she got accustomed to one code, she further encoded her workings until we had to stretch our resources just to decode them."  
"And you saw nothing... nefarious in that?"  
"Every teenaged girl desires a certain level of privacy," said Goren. "Most rely on those lockable diaries... Sara just took hers to an extreme."  
"So... *This* page, for example, could mean anything?" the Prosecution showed a diary apparently full of gibberish and an interesting representation of the solar system.  
"Actually, that is a treatise on the fractal nature of the universe," said Goren. "The picture nearby is a drawing of a molecule based on the known planets and their orbits around the sun. The actual personal stuff's on the next page, with the scarecrow figure."  
The court laughed.  
"And how can you actually *tell*?"  
"There's a few levels of encoding. Theories and ideas are encoded at a low level, daily events usually turn up at mid-level, personal thoughts are high-level. I asked some encoders and the US military asked me if they could pay her for her high-level codes... Interesting work for a kid in Remedial Ed."  
Glare. Goren had obviously digressed again. "And how can you tell that the -ah- high-level stuff isn't part of an elaborate plot to assassinate the President?"  
"Sara's almost completely non-violent," he said. "If she *was* the sort of person who committed murder, we'd have been investigating a matricide years ago."  
"*Detective*..." warned the Judge.  
Goren put on his best I'll-be-good smile. "That is," he corrected, "an intensive psychological profile revealed Sara to be the least likely to kill anyone. She may... investigate the idea as a purely mental exercise - a thought-game... but actual physical violence?" Goren shook his head. "You'd have to *really* push her buttons to get her to even defend herself."  
"I refer you at this point to the defendant's 'perfect crime' journals... how many of these match unsolved mysteries on the books of the NYPD?"  
"Actually... none of them." Goren smirked. "None of the unsolved cases *anywhere* match the situations mapped out in these books."  
Sara let out her breath. That had been her biggest concern after dealing with mother.  
"And on a further note, they're hardly perfect," Goren added. "In each 'case', Sara's written down possible flaws, including the fact that the plan is written down. She's more thorough than most detectives I know."  
Sara twitched. Praise... why did she have so much trouble with praise?

~

Mort stepped out of the court a free man. And his first act as a free man was to find a nice patch of wall and try to nut a dent in it. "God. Damned. Fucking. *Bastards*," he snarled, impacting his head against the plaster.  
Fucking *yanks*.  
He'd been proud of being a Brit, of being English. Even though he was a yob, he was better than almost all of the bloody Yanks because without *his* country, theirs would have never got started.  
And some *fucker* of a Yank had to dig up some document that said he was half Yank.  
"They're just names, Mr Toynbee," said Adrien. Sam. Sara's father. "Names on a piece of paper."  
"One of 'em's a *fuckin'* Yank," Mort howled at the wall.  
"Well... speaking as a 'fucking Yank', I'd have to advise that you take the advantages of being one."  
"Yeh?"  
"For example, you can stay in this country without fear of being deported," said Sam. "You can stay near Sara."  
Mort glared at him. So far, he seemed unperturbed that he and she had a 'thing' going on. But then, he'd seemed unperturbed after watching the securicam footage of his wife mentally abusing his daughter. Mort had only known after the judge asked Sam about it. "You got anythin' to say 'bout her'n me?"  
"Us Adriens fall in love for a very long time," he said. "With the right partner, that's a divine blessing. With the wrong partner..." he stared off into nothing, unconsciously touching the gold band on his left ring finger. "If you decide on staying with Sara... be prepared for forever. Decide - *forever*. Changing your mind - can only hurt her... maybe even damage her. Sara's had too much pain already."  
"Damn straight," said Mort.  
"I'm glad we agree on that," said Sam. "Because if you hurt her, I swear to God I *will* destroy you."  
"I owe 'er me life," said Mort. "I owe 'er... me *salvage* rights. I don't want nuthin' for 'er that she don't need for 'erself... and if that includes me pissin' off, I'll go. I'll go even if it bloody kills me... 'cause I want 'er to get better."  
Sam grinned. "Then I believe we have a deal."  
The second mutant-human handshake in the history of the nation sounded as a muffled clap in the empty corridor. There was no fanfare. No flash of photography. No assembled mass of media[1] to observe and record. Just two men shaking hands in a hall.  
"Can I drop in on 'er?"  
"Sure. Show of support," Sam carried himself a little lighter, now. "My little girl needs it."

Sara *knew* when her father entered the courtroom. It was a knack she'd always had, of picking up the subtle vibrations that always spelled out 'Daddy's home' in her mind.  
She smiled and waved for both he and Mort, but kept it down. Not appropriate behaviour when hearing about her alleged escapades as Adrian Essel, the transie 'ho.  
As far as muckraking went, it was a sad effort. There was no proof. Just rumours, innuendo, and a kneejerk reaction from the PTA.  
And was easily disproved by the school's own documentation on Sara. Including the numerous memos she'd sent around with regards to Adrian Essel and his lack of existance in reality.  
Finally done with dredging up her past and present as a potential mutie psycho, the Prosecution played the trump card of paranoia.  
Who knew exactly what this *mutie* would do if provoked?  
Who could tell what damage she could wreak if allowed back out into the public?  
_Who knows what evils lurk in the hearts of men?_ Sara thought.  
Ms Adler was on her toes, asking how many humans had committed atrocities with nothing more than their own enginuity. Could we trust our *neighbours*? Evidently not... but we don't feel the need to lock them up because of their race. Certainly, Sara *could* blend her way into some situation dangerous for the rest of the world... but what was the point. Just because one has the *capability* to do something doesn't mean that they *would*.  
Every human being on the planet with a certain IQ and a modicum of training *could* be the next Adolf Hitler... but they choose not to. That choice is an individual's right by birth. Sara had not *chosen* to expose her mutant nature. She certainly hadn't *chosen* to have a member of her race perform a spectacular attention-grabbing stunt just after she got in trouble about the riot. She definitely didn't choose to be a mutant.  
Now the choice of her life lay with twelve people who'd heard a lot of confusing things.  
Sara barely had time to hug and kiss her Dad and Mort before the bailiffs gently escorted her to the holding area.  
To wait.  
And wait.  
And *wait*.

[1] I like this as a collective noun. A mass of media ;) Sort of like a bark of papparazzi :D

~

Magneto walked with ease behind the guard. As far as disguises went, having Mystique be a guard was an excellent way to get in to a facility.  
And it was personally amusing to get some use out of the late Mr Laurio.  
People never questioned a guard, never really looked at who they lead... never *thought*. He was just another man in a grey suit. At least, today he was.  
They found her meditating on a bench. The heater in the cell had ensured that she had taken her coat and shoes off, revealling that her most interesting skin could also blend when she was completely relaxed.  
Were it not for the clothes, which looked like the invisible woman was in the cell, she would have been impossible to spot.  
"Visitor," said Mystique-as-Laurio.  
Eyes opened in the patch of wall where her head should have been. "They don't let visitors down here," and she *moved*, revealling where her skin finished and the background began. The colours shifted and faded into the myriad of aquas that were her natural state. She was also as tall as advertised, almost towering over him, were it not for her tendancy to stoop. "Erik Magnus Lensherr, I presume."  
He tipped his hat. "Magneto," he corrected. "You have me at an advantage, miss...?"  
"Sara Louise Adrien. This week's news. So tell me... Why does a megalomaniac who survived the holocaust name himself after an engine part?"  
He and Mystique exchanged a Look. "If she's a telepath, too, we might have a strong Beta," Mystique murmured.  
"Everybody keeps *thinking* that," said Sara. "Honestly, it's just a question of observation and deduction..."  
Magneto decided to get back on the track. This child was erratic. Flighty. But he could gain control of her. "What is your *real* name, Sara?"  
"Abc'defghij'kl'm'nop'qrstuv'w'xyz[1]," she said, apparently amused. "Supercalafragalistic-expialidocious... Fimblamenacular-diatropetazatemine - but you can call me 'Fimblar'."  
"You don't *have* a real name," he said.  
"And you expect to give me one - *Magneto*?" she snorted. "I really have to know - *why* an engine part?"  
He bent the bars aside for her. "I am the master of magnetism," he said. "Metal is mine to command."  
"Even copper and aluminium? What about gold?[2]" Annoyingly, she remained inside the cell. "Superconductors? What happens if you get too close to a working microwave?"  
Maybe she was thick. He'd dealt with that, too. "Questions for another time, my dear. I'm offering you the ultimate freedom... the chance to step above those who have held you down."  
She stepped closer to the gap in the bars. "Just like you gave it to Mort?" Her skin rippled with a band or two of black.  
"Ah yes. The Toad. I'll gather him for you shortly, my d--"  
The next thing he knew, there was a pain in his face. An equal pain in the back of his head. Someone was screaming. Not Mystique. One eye wouldn't open. He struggled to open the other.  
This child... this *slip* of a creature... had metamorphosed into a living demon. Her skin rippled with bands of black, red, and yellow as she held her own against Mystique.  
And worse yet, the child was winning through sheer, unadulterated rage and brutality.  
His vision waned.  
When he was next able to focus, the child-demon had him in a choke-hold. Distant figures, blurred through concussion, were moving closer to the scene.  
Mystique was down. One of her arms had been broken.  
"Give me one good reason," the child-demon snarled. "Just *one*."  
"Murder is for the unimaginative, Sara Louise."  
"...charles..." he whispered. God, he never thought he'd be so glad as to hear Charles' voice.  
"*Sara*..." an unknown. The blur was tall enough to be of her family stock. Perhaps her father or a close male relative. "What did he *do*?"  
"He *uses* people," the girl managed, her fury plain on her face. "He used up Mort. He *hurt* him..."  
"Put the ole sod down," said the Toad. "He ain't worth it."  
If he could but focus... Just one slip of metal. Just one wound...  
"But--"  
"Don't become him?" Toad pleaded.  
The anger colours faded. Tears spilled and she put him down.  
Magneto was grateful for unrestricted air. He managed to sit up, smiling at Toad. "I knew..." he panted. "I knew you'd not forget your debt to me."  
"Yeh. 'S'right. I owe you one." He had a good run up.  
The last thing he knew was an incoming boot at warp 9.

[1] Remember that song from _Sesame Street_?  
[2] Non-magnetic metals. I've wondered about this, myself...

~

She was shaking. She'd just taken down the man who was possibly the world's most dangerous mutant and she was *shaking*. Once she could control her breathing, she could box these shakes away...  
"Ride it out," advised Daddy. "Let it go into the air. Don't keep it."  
Mort was keeping guard over Lensherr. The guard had transformed into a blue woman who was-- oh dear. Sara blushed, grabbed her coat from inside her cell, and at least covered her over.  
"I did this?" she squeaked.  
"Weren't nobody else," Mort said. He hadn't taken his eyes off Lensherr, as if he were some kind of anti-leprechaun who would grant more evil to the world if he was allowed to get away. "Only caught the end of it, luv. You were fuckin' *beautiful*..."  
Guards were arriving, now. Sara slunk back inside her cell and held on to the straight bars for support. If she sat down, her legs would refuse to work for half an hour.  
_It's all right,_ soothed Xavier in her head. _They won't blame you._  
_Meaning you'll see to it personally?_  
A smirk. _I, too, once learned to tap-dance._  
The resulting kerfuffle passed by in a blur for Sara. She *wished* she could recall the exact dance of Xavier's fillibustering, but shock had disconnected her sinapses. She'd remember the feel of her father's hand against hers, the simple warmth of a parent's loving touch.  
He never flinched. Not once.  
She remembered coming through the bent bars, rough blanket itching her skin, and watching Mort making certain the guards had Lensherr strapped down and given some chemical concoction that disconnected him from his powers. She remembered Mort asking if they could wake him up... grabbing the old man's hair and yelling.  
"You got taken down by a couple of fucking *Gammas*, ya fuckin' bastard! 'Ow's *THAT* for yer fuckin' new world?"  
She heard her own voice, but never remembered actually speaking. "Mr Toynbee, really. The Dragon is dead. There's no need for mutillation."  
"Had t' take the heart, luv." He grinned - cheeky - and paced away from Lensherr. "You be all right?"  
"Oh, no. I've always been half-left," she said as she was ushered into the next availlable cell. "I *would* be eternally grateful for a decent hot chocolate, though."  
Mort's hand against her cheek. A tender touch, as if afraid he would somehow break her. "Nuthin' but the best, luv."  
One by one, all the players in the drama filed away. Sara got her coat and shoes back. A styrofoam cup of hot, sugary tea was pressed carefully into her hands by a guard. And then she was alone again.  
Ugh. They put non-dairy creamer in it.  
Sara drank it anyway. Hot sugar helped with shock.  
Too frazzled to meditate. Too shaky and aware to nap. Too low on resources to create... Sara found interesting shapes on the walls with her eyes.  
It was something to do until the forces in charge decided what should happen to her life.

~

 

There was quite a show of force for the final part of Sara's trial. The assembled mutants in the audience of the court, along with those humans who looked 'mutant' enough to have wound up behind the wire, sat in such profusion that Kurt had turned off his holographic disguise in order to fit in.  
The sandy-haired man near the front was the girl's father, but it was the presence of the greenish man *next* to him that caused Ororo to stiffen.  
"Problem?" he whispered.  
"Toad," she whispered. "One of Magneto's henchmen."  
"Not anymore, so the Professor said," murmured Kurt. "Remember?"  
"It could have been a plot."  
Kurt was still trying to figure out what sort of plot hinged on betraying someone you greatly feared when the key participants filed in. Some minor paranoia had caused the guards to block Sara in, thus obscuring all but the top of her head and the thatch of disorganised hair that rested there.  
They all rose for the judge, and sat again.  
"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?"  
"We have, your honour," said the spokesperson.  
"And is that verdict unanimous?"  
"Yes, your honour."  
A piece of paper was passed between the jury and the judge. The elaborate pantomime of American law played out as the focus of so much attention rose.  
_Leiber Gott... she *is* that tall._  
"How do you find?"  
"In the charge of conspiracy against the President of the United States... not guilty," the spokesperson read. "In the charge of terrorism... not guilty. In the charge of conspiracy to commit murder... not guilty. In the charge of incitement to riot... not guilty."  
The court erupted. Sara's jubillant arms enveloped both her father and the man Ororo had identified as 'Toad'. Applause broke out, barely suppressed by the judge's gavel.  
He did rise and bring his hands together as himself... but he balked for the representational introductions and turned the more - acceptable face on.  
No sense in scaring the poor kid before they even got her inside the gates.  
Sam made the introductions. "Sara? This is Ororo Munroe and Kurt Wagner. They're teachers at that school I was telling you about."  
Sara's greeting was entheusiastic - she hugged the stuffing out of them. She was grinning ear to ear and shining like some rare and exotic gemstone. She pulled back and clasped his hand. "Isn't 'freedom' a *marvellous* word?"  
She almost didn't notice that she turned completely blue.  
Her eyes hadn't changed colour at all. It was odd to see his colouring without those familliar yellow eyes staring back at him.  
Sara let go, distracted. "That's never happened before..."  
Ororo and Toynbee were staring each other down like cats. She never once broke eye contact with him as she ran through the full spiel for Xavier's marvellous institute-come-sanctuary.  
Then Sara said the words that started an entirely new mess of trouble.  
"Can Mortimer come, too?"

~

Mort glared at the woman who tried to kill him. She glared back with equal venom. They'd both been in a battle on opposing sides. They'd both fought for their lives and various causes.  
At the time, all the old bastard had said was, "Go down there and delay them."  
He'd been glad to comply, attempting to make 'daddy' proud.  
Maybe his heart hadn't entirely been in it with this one. Maybe he'd heard one too many snide comments from his alleged team... but he'd saved his one offensive weapon for last-ditch circumstances - and paid the price.  
He heard Sara's innocent question and felt his heart stab him.  
"Don't think I'd be welcome," he said. "We got 'istory." His body, unbidden, curled easily into a quasi-defensive posture.  
Just like Storm's had.  
Both were waiting for the first one to strike.  
Sara sized up the situation in seconds. "I see. Ms Munroe, am I correct in guessing that you were on the side of the mysterious benefactors who chose to remain unnamed?"  
Storm looked startled[1]. "Are you--?"  
"She's not a telepath," said Sam, Mort, and the German guy together.  
"She's reading us," said the German guy. "And if I may say so; you're very good at it, Fraulein."  
"Dankeschoen, mein Herr... aber ich bin nicht bis zum Niveau der legendéren Detektive, noch[2]," said Sara, blushing.  
Mort rolled his eyes. "Great," he muttered. "Now she can't take a compliment in *two* languages..."  
"Fifteen, at the last count," murmured Sam. "I love you dearly, sweetie, but you've *got* to learn to stop at the 'thank you'."  
Sara was shrivelling under their combined attentions. "...'m not worth it..."  
Fuck the weather bitch. Sara needed him. He wrapped an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. "Hey. Shh... 's all right. You got a whole bunch of people who reckon you *are* worth it. They're *teachers*. They gotta know something, right?"  
Sara managed a little nod. "...mmm..."  
Sam was watching him with a raised eyebrow. Mort wouldn't put it past him to know about Sara's absolute faith in the judgement of teachers. It was one of the things he'd used to get Sara to try the more advanced courses in the first place.  
"So all we gotta do is go to your flat an' get all your things packed right." He couldn't resist the temptation to brush the tears from her cheek. "You're goin' to a new school. You've got your second chance."  
Sam ushered them out. "I'm sure we can discuss this over lunch... I know this nice little place where we can all manage the little details in a civilized manner. I believe some of your friends might be there, Sara..."  
"It's *all* about second chances," said Sara.  
_Aw *fuck*,_ thought Mort.  
She whirled out of his arms, walking backwards and only relying on the touch of his hand for guidance. "Ms Munroe... would you agree that death is the ultimate change?"  
"I--"  
"And having come as close to death as Mort has would improve a person's perspective vis-a-vis action, consequence, and the path they choose for themselves in the future?" She was talking very quickly. Tapdancing... but not literally.  
"Ah..."  
"Ergo, coming dangerously close to death is the ultimate chance to be born again. Mr Toynbee *has* had that chance. My father is a witness. He *saw* Mort turn away from the path he'd once followed."  
"...and spit in its eye, too," added Sam.  
"He's already *been* dead... why not allow him to reincarnate?"  
"Because some people don't *get* that chance," Storm said.  
"Then it makes the ultimate gift," Sara persisted. "Give the chance that others couldn't take... or weren't given. I can testify that - since his recovery - Mr Toynbee has made a concerted effort to turn his life around... and in the process, help others. Isn't that what *you* do?"  
"Your 'Mr Toynbee' was a terrorist."  
"So was I," said the German. "Yet you gave *me* a chance."  
"You weren't in your right mind," she argued.  
"There's more than one way to control someone's thoughts," Sara argued. "Believe me, Mort bears the scars. Lensherr was a pro. I've no doubt he *learned* from pros... and yet, *somehow*, Mort's managed to break free of it."  
"You *can't* trust him."  
"Ms Munroe, I trust Mort implicitly. He stayed by me when he had no motive to stay. He caught me when I fell, and helped me stand when I needed support. In all good conscience, I can do no less than that in return. All he needs is a job and a place to stay. And what better place than where you can keep an eye on him?"  
God, he loved Sara-logic. She could twist things about so that they *worked* for an ideal good... that also left the opposition scratching their head and wondering how the hell it happened.  
The German fellow took up the baton. "Why not?" he said. "I don't think *anyone* wants a loose cannon running around free in New York."  
_O, please, Br'er Bear... don't throw me in that there briar patch..._ thought Mort. He decided not to say anything, concentrating instead on steering the still-backwards Sara safely through the pitfalls of New York sidewalk life.

[1] Which I'm certain is Halle Berry's one and only expression when 'acting'  
[2] Thankyou very much, sir... but I'm not up to the level of the legendary detectives, yet.

~

Sam was reminded of the old jokes. _These mutants walk into a bar..._ He could see people at the restaurant observing them. Waiting for the punchline.  
"Two weeks and the first thing I see of you is the back of your head," said Callisto. She was waiting in the foyer with a handful of others.  
"See?" said Sara to Ororo. "All the way from court to here and he didn't even let me trip." She turned. "Callisto! Don't *you* look funny in a dress."  
"Daddy-dear told us to look nice," said the one-eyed mutant. She gave Sara, then Mort a bear-hug. "Just so you know? Yellow was never your colour."  
"I don't think yellow is *anyone's* colour," joked Emilia. She gave Sara a hug. "Open air is so much nicer, yes?"  
"Where's Dianne?" said Mort. "She okay?"  
"Had to go see her OBGYN," said Callisto. "And she said that her family's glad to have her back."  
Sara smiled. "Nice to know *some* of us have the chance."  
"What am I?" joked Sam. "Chopped liver?"  
Which triggered Sara's Comically Cute mode. "Aw. Is daddy-waddy a diddle upset?"  
"Enough..."  
Of course, the maitre'd had noticed them and did not want punchlines happening in *his* restaurant. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave... we don't exactly welcome mutants on these premises."  
"What? You have an objection to people of colour?" said Sara.  
"Don't start," he warned, surprised at the chorus from both Mort and Callisto. Sam reached into his pocket and produced The Card. "All of these people are my *guests*, m'seur. Please don't *upset* my guests."  
The Card had him in a spin that resulted in the man pointing due Prestige. "Of course, sir. I'll find a discrete booth for you and your... party."  
As soon as he was gone, Sara pretended to clean out her ear. "Did anyone else hear that last word as 'pets'?"  
Mort and Callisto put up their hands... then Kurt, with a sly grin.  
"I'm starting to like you," said the German acrobat. "And I definitely hope you decide to join us at Herr Xavier's school."  
"What other choice could she have?" said Ororo.  
"In an infinite universe, all things are possible," said Sara. "Up to and including going back to the shreds of my former life - where people don't talk about me as if I'm not in the room."  
"Hackles *down*, darling," counselled Sam. "Give the nice lady a chance to improve."  
Mort had to work *very* hard to wipe the grin off his face on that one.

The maitre'd didn't want to touch her or Mort, and he was leery of the Other People surrounding them. Kurt found it interesting to watch the ballet play out differently, depending what his impressions were.  
He leaned over and whispered in Ororo's ear, "I'm half-tempted to turn off the inducer and see what he does."  
Ororo smiled politely at the napkin and murmured back, "Don't. It's already caught far enough."  
He straightened in his seat with a regretful sigh. He was dearly fond of Ororo, but sometimes, she was just no fun at all.  
Maybe if he waited until the second course...  
"Don't even think about it," said Sam. "We're in enough trouble already."  
Kurt pouted. His desires aside, it probably *was* a bad idea. And it would be bad press.  
The menu arrived in French.  
"Oh *darn*... everything has alcohol in it," said Sara.  
"It all burns off, madam[1]."  
"Ready to defend that statement against a bout of anaphalactic shock?" said Sam. "Not to mention the subsequent lawsuit..."  
Mort looked aside at Sara and looked like he was vowing to never touch alcohol ever in the rest of his life.  
_Definitely smitten._  
"I shall discuss things with the chef," said the maitre'd.  
"Daaa-aaad... it's *not* anaphalactic shock..."  
"No, but they understand 'anaphalactic shock' and it scares the beans out of them."  
"I know... a lie they can understand... but-- I just have trouble with maintaining it."  
Mort was concerned. "So what is it, really?"  
"Depending on severity; swelling, weals, blisters, burns and airway cloggage. Not a fun experience."  
"Makes dining out an interesting time," supplied Sam.  
"Something usually reserved for Daddy-daughter day," Sara grinned. "We're both far *too* used to arguing with head chefs in their native tongue."  
"And speaking of the devil," said Kurt. "...so to speak."  
The irate man in the white outfit was storming right up to them, and began haranguing them in broken French.  
Sara launched into far better French and told him off in no uncertain terms. And corrected his grammar.  
Kurt sniggered behind his hand before adding in perfect French, "[And by the by... it'd be far better if you stopped pretending you were French.]"  
"Kurt..." warned Ororo.  
"Just trying to help out," he smiled.  
Sam sighed, "This is why I only go out once a year..." He managed an amiable front. "M'seur... surely you are such a great artist that you don't need to rely on something as crass as wine in order to infuse flavour into your meals?"  
The chef took the lifeline. "Oui. That is more than true. I shall create for you a work of art..." and zoomed off.  
"Take a bow," said Sara. "My dad. Supreme master of the left-handed insult."

[1] Big Posh Restaurant Lie #3. It doesn't. And if it *did* - why do they bother putting it in?

~

The conversation relaxed into amiable babble on this or that, primarily with updates on news or TV show trivia.  
"And yes, before you ask, *everyone* has been checking in on your goddamn hamster," Callisto laughed. "Mrs Nesbit has one hell of a social calendar, now. People bringing her groceries..."  
"People willing to feed the hamster," said Emilia. "If it wasn't for your feeding instructions, I swear you'd have a little hairy sphere."  
"The kids have drawn up a roster," said Sam. "It's incredible to watch."  
Sara giggled. "Chuckie's more famous than I am by now. I wonder if I could sell his story."  
"Oh yeah," said Mort. "I was a teenaged mutant's hamster."  
"Sounds like one of my hack jobs," Sara grinned.  
The table laughed its way free of the tensions that had plagued the beginning of things. The appetiser helped more than a little. Sam had always noticed that people were less inclined to be aggressive with a stomach full of good food.  
Sara was telling a story behind one of her features. A soap-parody she named _All My Zombies_. It was the sort of anecdote that had listeners in helpless hysterics.  
"...so there we all are, flesh hanging off our fake bones, *just* as Maria delivers the immortal line, 'you just love me for my braaaaiiiiinnnnnsss' - and *mother* walks in..."  
"Did she have a coronary?" said Mort, hopefully.  
"Please, I need a run-up to do the expression," Sara took a few deep breaths, mimed holding a glass with one hand... and pulled the expression.  
Ororo cackled, tears spilling from her eyes. Kurt was barely holding himself up. The others around the table were in various stages of hysterics.  
"And falls over in a dead faint," Sara said, painting the picture with her expressive hands. "Bam! Down like a sack of suds. Ray did his best to revive her... and then found out that that's a *bad* thing to do when one's makeup involves a dangling eyeball..."  
The main course arrived. Another work of art without a single trace of alcohol.  
"Five fainting spells later, we hit on the idea of breaking for the day, got the prosthetics cleaned off, and finally revived her for good... and *that*, my dears, is how I lost any chance of sick days from school."  
It was funny, true... but like all good comedy, it straddled the line into tragedy.  
Sam decided to steer the conversation back to its original purpose. "And speaking of school, darling... perhaps we should negotiate some -ah- fine details."  
"Mort gets a fair chance," said Sara, instantly. "That's all I really want."  
"Define 'chance'," said Ororo.  
"The man you knew as the Toad is dead. You killed him... and I think Mr Toynbee is somewhat grateful. I can... make myself forgive the damage you did to his poor body - provided you forgive his sordid past in the spell of a bed decision. He starts with a blank slate."  
"It's a lot of effort," said Sam. "My family has a history of intense loyalty and devotion to those we hold dear. That can even hold true for retroactive tallies."  
"It's only fair, Dad. I can't hang on to the sins of the past if *they're* willing to give them up. Blank slates all 'round - though I refuse to start anew at the ABC's."  
"You don't *have* sins of the past," said Sam. "Not significant ones, at any rate."

~

Ororo looked to Kurt.  
"Was? You think I can give you advice?" his voice coming out of that hologram was more than disturbing for her. "I rather like Mort. I'd have let him in without any kind of deal."  
"Bless you!" Sara cheered.  
It was all so confusing[1]. If Jean were here...  
...if Jean were here...  
Was trusting the Toad the sort of gift Jean would appreciate?  
And the Professor had *seen* the man defy Magneto.  
Was a man who betrayed his master the sort of man who *she* would trust?  
He didn't have the world's most ideal history...  
_Neither did I. Remember Cairo._  
If it hadn't been for the Professor and his own willingness to give the freedom of a blank slate, she may just be where Toad - where *Mort* was, now... dangling by the decision of one person. Dependant on the judgement of one open-minded soul.  
She owed it to the man who took in so many waifs and strays to follow his example. "All right... just - don't expect us to trust you at first."  
"Taken as given," said Mort. "I'll do me best to be trustworthy."  
"I hear you need teaching staff," said Emilia. "There happen to be more than a few of us who need jobs... those of us who never minded being around mutants."  
"We're just old softies, really," said Sara. She was smirking when she said it, so it had to be a joke.  
Ororo didn't find it that funny.  
"Which reminds me," said Callisto. "Remember that jerk Arnold[2]? The guy who told all of the very-obviously-muties they should hang themselves?"  
"Oh *him*," said Sara. "Our day and age's answer to Heston. 'Getcher stinking paws off me you damned dirty mutie'..."  
"That's still damned scary, luv."  
"What's happened to him?" she continued without missing a beat. "Something kharmic?"  
"Kharmic and scandellous," said Callisto. "Turns out our beloved (cough) Arnie was incarcerated for posessing the X-gene. His place of ex-employment registered him as a latent mutant. He's getting his own racism thrown back in his face, his wife divorced him, and his family's threatening to sue him for 'introducing the mutant taint' into their precious bloodlines."  
"Not that I have much faith in higher powers," said Sara, "but I pray that *that* lovely little case gets thrown the heck out of court."  
"Amen," said Emilia.  
Kurt's face fell. Ororo knew exactly how much faith meant to him. This was going to devolve into theology in nothing flat.  
"You don't believe?" he said.  
"Organized religion makes my skin crawl," said Sara. "I'm sorry, but it does. Say *these* words, do *these* things... and some higher force will give you lots and lots of good things when you're dead. I think the system would work much better if the good things happened a tad earlier." She sipped her juice. "And don't get me started on punishing evil..."  
"The eternal question," said Kurt. "Why does God let bad things happen?"  
_This isn't what I thought he'd do..._ mused Ororo.  
"And a very good why it is," said Sara. "Along with, 'why does He let them *continue* to happen?' and queries of a similar vein. I've posited that if there *is* a higher power in charge, they're a lot less involved in things than the churches would have one think."  
Kurt actually *laughed*. "I know the feeling," he said. "But that is the essence of faith... to hold true to the idea that there *is* a higher force, watching over you. Something that will care for you when you need it the most. Someone who loves you no matter what."  
Oh yeah. This was the very core of him laid bare. His reason for faith. She could believe in *that*, if not the tenets of a church.  
Sara looked extremely wistful. "I *want* to believe in that, but... not while the wounds are fresh. I have extreme trouble with a kind and loving God who lets little girls get fractured minds... who allows Dragons and Gorgons to prey wherever they whist... and who lets it all - *perpetuate*."  
Kurt bowed his head to her. "I understand. Some of us walk through the fire earlier than others." And he reached across to touch her hand in reassurance. Even though he knew what would happen.  
Again, Sara matched his true colours.  
"Twice in one day," said the girl. She admired the colour, even as it faded. "I know touching Mort makes me literally green around the gills, but turning blue? I didn't even do that when I was in the Terrible Twos..."  
"No, you disassembled the televisions and put bike chains on the liquor cabinets," said Sam.  
"It would've worked if they had handles..." muttered Sara.  
"I'm sure the solution will be made clear," said Kurt. "In good time."  
Ororo felt it was high time she spoke, "And attendance at Xavier's will help you learn to control reactions like that, amongst other things."  
"I just want to know one thing - how big is the library?"  
"Liebchen, the whole *estate* is a library," said Kurt. "Everywhere, there are bookshelves."  
"Bliss..." Sara grinned. "I might even encounter a few volumes I haven't read yet..."  
"That's two muties hooked," smirked Callisto. "How are you guys for security measures? It used to be my field of speciality before things imploded. I can think nastier than the other guy..."  
Kurt nudged her. "If nothing else, she'd give Logan someone to play with..."  
Ororo could just picture the two of them in a battle sim. Callisto constantly gave off vibes that she'd rather be in combat fatigues, belting several colours of shit out of the badguy. They'd get along like a house on fire.  
_...flames, screaming, and people running for safety...[3]_ "I'm sure you'd be a welcome addition to the team," she said.

[1] Halle's one emote [/meow]  
[2] He's Arnold, Arnold, Arnold Rimmer...  
[3] Terry Pratchett.

~

"She packed her bookshelves."  
"That's what I'm telling you."  
"She *packed* her *bookshelves*?"  
"Which particular word do you have trouble understanding?"  
"I have trouble with the whole idea that one sixteen-year-old kid can have a small *library*."  
"Most of it was in storage," said Sara, turning the corner to find her two newest educators, Mr Logan and Mr Summers. "All the better to prevent mother from burning it. Hi," she offered a hand to either of them. Which they stared at. "Sara Louise Adrien. Go-to girl for finding copies of just about *anything*... and that's your one warning."  
The short[1] fellow with the cigar looked her up and down. "You're green," he said.  
"No, Mort's green. I'm somewhat blue-ish." They weren't taking the straight line either. Darn. "I was told where to find you for the ritual relocating of boxes."  
"Huh?" said the fellow with the interesting eyewear.  
"Professor Xavier told me to tell you to help me move in," Sara supplied. _Must not attempt to strangle the Phys. Ed tutor. He has to have positive points somewhere... There are no stupid people, just stupid moments._ "This way," she said, gesturing for them to follow.  
Her life - or the bits of it she particularly wanted to keep - fit into a small U-haul. Most of the actual space was taken up by books, profit-in-potentia, and Creations. Only a small percentage was things she actually used every day.  
"Um," said the Phys. Ed tutor. "You have a hamster on your head."  
"Yes. That's Chuckie. This is probably one of the few times you'll ever see him outside of some kind of plastic barrier, so treasure the moment. Poor creature's agorophobic... but he's too happy to see his Mommy to risk losing sight of me again. I'm his security blankie." She grinned, picking up her body box by both handles. "Watch the archive   
boxes. They tend to go at the bottom."  
"Corpse case?" said the man with the glasses.  
_Joy. He can read,_ she thought. _Down, girl..._ "Don't worry, it's completely fake. I mostly use him for set dressing."  
Ororo breezed past and found a box for herself. "She calls it Dead Fred. Don't ask."  
Sara began hauling Fred and his container up to her new digs. Behind her, the teachers were talking.  
"Why wouldn't I want to ask?"  
"'Cause you'll find out," said the smoker. "Ain't'cha heard ignorance is bliss?"  
"She makes movies," said Ororo. "And believe me, you might just prefer ignorance..."  
Their voices faded to a murmur as she took her burden upstairs, and found Kurt and Mort setting up shelving. Or, more correctly, trying to fill the shelving with interesting bits - like Chuckie's labyrinth.  
"With the right amounts of string, blu-tack and tape, that maze can go in amazing directions," Sara informed. "And since we're still rearranging furniture, can I have a clear path between the bed and the balcony, please? Oh, and a sunless nook for the computer. Sun reflections are just nasty."  
"I'm not even *trying* to set up your computer, luv," said Mort. "Think I'm runnin' out of brains with *this* lot." He gestured with a tubing part.  
"RTFM," Sara joked. She found the piece of card with instructions for assembly on it, and handed it to the other man in her life. "And let your imagination be your guide."  
On her way back to the U-haul, some unguessed signal made the halls fill with a solid stream of teenaged mutants. Sara 'eep'ed and tried to get out of the way... fast running out of 'way' to get out of.  
Attempting to climb the walls - even backwards - had long been a personal joke. It was only when the tidal forces of moving bodies ebbed that she noticed her feet were a longish way from the ground.  
Vertigo.  
Sara shut her eyes and prayed that whatever force held her to the wall suddenly didn't decide to let go. She could *feel* gravity wanting to pull her to the ground. The fall wanted to eat her.  
Too scared to move, she had little choice but to stay put.

"Ach..." Kurt growled at the diminishing hum that meant that the inducer had run out of juice. _Sooner or later, everyone's going to have to get used to you, junge..._ At least *this* time, he was in an empty corridor.  
Well, he added at the sound of agitated breathing, almost empty.  
"Hallo?" he risked.  
"Uhm... little help?"  
Kurt looked up - not that much further up than her normal height, in fact. "Sara... was?" She was stuck to the wall. "How did you get up there?"  
"It just kinda happened," she quavered. "Can you help? I'm... I'm scared of heights."  
The hamster was treating an outflung arm like a balance-beam, stopping only to sniff at this or that in the hope that it was food.  
"Can you move your foot?" he asked. "Stretch it out towards the floor?"  
Slowly, by shaking degrees, she did so. A cautiously-tapping toe found the floor and solidly slammed into it. The other leg followed, jerky, before the rest of her slowly slid into the corner and folded up.  
"...you must think I'm dreadfully silly..."  
"Nein," he soothed. "Fear can be a very powerful enemy. The most powerful, since it can control you when nothing else can." He gently brushed her hair, calming her. "A very dear friend of mine hates small rooms... much like you hate heights. She works very hard every day to beat it. And so can you."  
Her pet found his arm and clambered on to it.  
Kurt moved very carefully, trying not to spook the little creature. "Hallo, kleines... are you being brave for her? Or are you looking to see if I have any cake?"  
Sara wiped her eyes. "Chuckie usually doesn't climb other people," she said, and then opened them.  
Kurt's heart fell. _And now comes the screaming..._

[1] Yes, I know Hugh Jackman's 6'something, but Logan's cannon height is around 5'4"[IIRC], so I'm writing him as 5'4".

~

Sara's response was a delighted smile. "Mr Wagner... you've been holding out on me."  
Kurt blinked. "Ah... I have?"  
"Of course you have. I've missed such an opportunity to compare notes. Why on *Earth* did you hide?"  
He was personally amazed that she didn't see it. A lifetime of bad reactions flickered through his head. "I... didn't want to scare the horses[1]," he finally said.  
Sara giggled, relaxing out of her trembles. "Silly Elf," she said. "They don't let horses in New York, they tend to scare the cars..." She untangled herself from her curl whilst standing up.  
"Elf?" said Kurt.  
"You look rather elfin," she said. "And the sense of humour matches, too."  
Kurt shrugged. "I suppose it's a lot better than some *other* nicknames I've had."  
"Plus your accent hails from the Black Forest... though you're hardly a *little* Elf[2]."  
"Who knows," he said. "Maybe there are bigger elves, somewhere." Even though he was delighted to find a genuine non-reaction to his true self, he still had to ask. "Why were you not afraid?"  
"Chuckie's an excellent judge of character," said Sara.

[1] The original objection to cars when they first came out - and why they had to have a guy running in front with a red flag. True stuph.  
[2] Bumper sticker oft seen on Volkswagons, "Made by der little elves in der black forest"

~

There are events in life that are much better viewed from the outside. Much like the current situation in Sara's room. Two mortal enemies, each unaware of the others' presence, are mere feet away from each other.  
However, through a series of uncanny happenstances, they manage to avoid actually seeing each other.  
One man, seeking a screwdriver, ducks behind a pile of boxes just as the other turns his way, seeking a resting place for the object in his hands. He turns away to sort books onto a shelf just as the sought tool is found and the seeker returns to his work.  
In one case, each man grabs a tool set down an instant before, by the other.  
Such a spell can not last for long.  
"More grist for the mill," Sara announced. "Nice to see you two getting along. I thought there'd be fireworks for sure."  
"Fireworks?" said both men together, turning to face the lizardine girl.  
Like the bubble to the pin, the peace - and the magic - is broken.  
Scott's hand flew to his visor.  
"Sara! *Down*!" Three men warned at once.  
Kurt put down his box - marked 'fragile' - as Sara turned towards the obvious sign of danger...  
And threw her box - 'library 3.5' - to him with a, "Catch!"  
Books spilled in a flutter as Scott fumbled.  
Both Kurt and Mort coiled to pounce. Too late. Far too late.  
Sara had her hand in front of Scott's visor and herself between him and Mort.  
"Please don't shoot my boyfriend?" she said. "We haven't even had a first date."

~

Words have power. Some, like 'nigger' in the wrong neighbourhood, can get you killed. Sara's choice of 'boyfriend' caused a veritable cloud of emotion.  
Kurt, the most subtle of the reactees, allowed a sly smirk to spread across his face. He'd detected undercurrents in the way those two interacted, and was pleased that his suspicions were confirmed.  
Scott's temper boiled. What right had this *girl* to claim a man old enough to be her father as a paramour - and why was she insane enough to do it? What did he do to her in order to have her in his thrall?  
For Mort, the world had taken on a whole new aspect. Boyfriend. She'd said 'boyfriend'. And he knew that Sara only minced words when she was trying to be polite. Light shone on him from above and a chorus of angels sang in his heart. Somehow, that one word from her lips transformed him from ugly, unwanted Toad into something... infinitely better. Maybe not a prince, per se, but at the very least a human being with *worth*. In that one moment, with the power of that one word and its speaker, Mister Mortimer Toynbee was reborn.  
And residing in Sara's chest - was doubt. Had she *meant* to say that? Was it too demeaning to call a grown man 'boyfriend'? Did she have any right to claim him at all? What if he didn't like her like she liked him? What if he was appalled? What if...? She turned, seeking reassurance from him.  
And found it in what could only be described as a shit-eating grin and an undeniable aura of complete bliss.  
Sara returned a shy smile and a squeak of, "...hope you don't mind..."  
He just stood there and grinned wider. Shone brighter. There was a sense of... potentiality in him. As if, at any minute, he'd break into a full-blown musical number.  
Mort didn't mind in the slightest.  
"Luv, I wouldn't mind if you proposed," he said.  
She could drink the confidence in his eyes forever and never have her thirst quenched. He didn't play games with hearts... he *knew*[1]. _That's what I want,_ she thought. _Oh yes._

[1] Paraphrased from an early ish of _ElfQuest_

~

"You can't be serious about letting him stay," said Scott.  
"Scott... I would not be the person I am if I forced him to leave. This school has *always* been a place of refuge and recuperation for mutants who have needed the help. More than one life has been changed by that simple fact - as well you know."  
Scott froze. His mind filled with the dark, distant memories of life with Mr Winters. "That's a low shot and you know it, sir."  
"Someone has to remember," said Xavier. "Every student here has some piece of themselves... some part of their pasts that they don't want acknowledged... something they'd rather everyone forgot."  
"That's *different*!"  
"Really? Is redemption any less possible for an adult than a child?"  
He sighed, turning away and venting his frustration on a piece of walnut panelling. "Don't *you* start... please."  
Xavier, in spite of the emotions boiling off his student, smirked. "I warned you that she'd find out about Mr Toynbee's... accomodations."  
"She told me off in Ethics. As a thought exercise. The way she worded it, I--" His head joined his fist on the panel. "I nearly didn't catch it."  
Professor Charles Xavier covered his mouth to chuckle.  
"Damnit, this is *not* funny."  
"Not that, precisely... I was considering the subsequent -ah- reaction." He had received five students who had decided to go to the top with regards to Mr Toynbee's subterranian quasi-incarceration. "You may have a revolt on your hands."  
"I *told* you the Toad was nothing but trouble!"  
"Th' Toad's dead, cocky," said the man as he barged in. "None of you seen 'er?"  
Xavier, who knew instantly who he was talking about, said, "No... Sara's not anywhere nearby..." a moment of concentration. "I can't sense her above ground level..."  
"I checked, 'er bike's still in th' garage."  
"The remains of her bike," Scott absently corrected. Those who knew what it was under the obvious history of abuse had ganged up and turned it into the school Shop project... which was currently in pieces until specified parts and tools arrived. "No other vehicles--?"  
"Nuthin'," said Mort. "No sign of 'er anywhere."  
"Then, gentlemen," said Xavier, "we must seek her by other means."  
Mort instantly followed him, practically oozing agitation.  
Scott followed out of outrage. "*Sir*! You can't let *him* down there..."  
"Mr Toynbee's intentions are pure," said Xavier.  
"We've both been fooled before," said Scott.  
The argument continued - cyclicly - all the way down to Cerebro's door.  
"All I'm saying is he's an obvious security risk."  
"All *I'm* sayin' is you're an utter bloody prick, mate," said Mort. "I haven't done anything to you, yer students, yer stuff... what the fuck is your problem?"  
"You're my problem! Sir. Please. Don't let him *in* there."  
The door hissed open with a, "Welcome Professor."  
And then all three of them found Sara.  
Amidst parts and pieces of the machine. Head down, as the saying went, and tail up.  
"See?" said Mort. "If you weren't so fuckin' paranoid 'bout where *I* am, I could'a bloody stopped her."  
"Sara," Xavier prompted. "What are you doing?"  
"Hm?" She surfaced. "Oh. Um. I wanted to see how it worked," she said. "Did you know that about half of these parts are completely superfluous? They're an open avenue for sabotage[1]... and you really should think about that door, too. Anyone with a mirror, some foil and a rudimentary knowledge of electronic security systems can just barge right in."  
"Sara..."  
She appeared to notice, for the first time, exactly what she'd done. "Oh. Heh." She blushed. "Object lesson?"  
Mort finally wiped the grin off his face. "Looks like you had the wrong security risk, mate."  
"Sir, this *has* to be a front... they're in cahoots."  
"No, we're in a basement," said Sara. "In a machine with an almost ludicrous sense of over-design."  
"*Sara*..." said Xavier. "Can you put it back together?"  
"With or without the excess parts?" Sara gestured at them. "Because the latter might require a little re-engineering..."  
"Sir, he's set this up on purpose..."  
"Just put everything back, thankyou."  
"And just 'ow the fuck am I supposed to be th' bloody leader of this?"  
"You're the criminal mastermind - you tell me.[2]"  
"*SCOTT*!"  
"But *sir*--"  
"I can tell you definitively that Mr Toynbee has not even *thought* of Cerebro until we actually *got* here. Sara... merely got bored enough to take a look."  
"I kept bloody tellin' ya she needs a keeper," said Mort. "But *you'd* rather be *my* bloody keeper."  
"*Someone* has to keep an eye on you."  
"I'd volunteer," said Sara, reconnecting parts, "but some paranoid bantling[3] keeps locking me away from him - and vice versa."  
"It's for your own safety," Scott hedged. "You're still just a kid an--"  
"I have faced down my own Dragon, sir. I have eked out existance in a situation where I was *expected* to break down and beg for mercy. I have fought your enemy and *won*, sir. I am not 'just' anything." Anger colours rippled briefly over her skin. "Do not demean me with 'just', thankyou."  
Scott was stunned. So stunned he didn't realise Mort was easing out of his battle stance at her words. "I-- I didn't--"  
"Think?" Sara finished. "Perhaps you should, in future. Not all problems are solved with muscle and brute force."

[1] Reference to X-Men, the first movie.  
[2] _Emperor's New Groove_  
[3] Synonymous with 'bastard'

~

"No," said Mort. "'E's righ'." They were the most painful words he'd ever said. They sundered his heart for certain. No physical pain ever hurt like this.  
Sara was incensed. "I *beg* your *pardon*?"  
"You're sixteen, luv," he said. "I shouldn't be doin' 'alf the things I'm doin' with ya."  
"Kissing? Holding *hands*?" she provided. "Dates?"  
"All of it. Especially the kissin'."  
Her eyes filled with moisture. "But... I just got used to the concept," she said, "that someone actually wanted t--" her voice cracked into inaudibility as her tears fell.  
It took supreme effort to resist the impulse to embrace her. His arms twitched to hold her, and it took almost more than he had to draw them back to himself. "I'm sorry," he said.  
She'd been piecing parts together, almost absently, right up until that 'sorry'.  
Words have power. That 'sorry' took all the motive power out of her. Drew the life out of her by slow degrees.  
"I *have* to step back," he said. "You're still too young. I... could 'urt you."  
Her skin, always an indicator of her emotion, drained of her usually bright colours. "Next week, I turn seventeen?" she offered. "Then it's only one year..."

_Congratulations,_ Xavier 'said'. _You've won. Do you yet comprehend what damage winning will do?_  
He had to be annoyed to sound that way in a telepathic communication. _Their relationship is currently illegal. Unhealthy._  
_You have no idea,_ 'said' Xavier. _*Look* at her._  
He saw a girl sagging through depression. She was young. She'd get over it.  
_You're so certain?_  
_Yes._  
_Then let them stay seperated for that week. I'm sure the damage will become obvious before then._  
_Teenage histrionics,_ he dismissed. _A tantrum over what she can't have._  
_And your intense focus on this, rather than coping with your loss is...?_  
_My own business. Sir._  
"One week," said Xavier. "I think that's worth your freedom from your current - accomodations..."  
"*Sir*!" Scott objected.  
"You mean the eight-by-five bunk-room with no windows?" said Mort. "I'm more or less used to it."  
"It's up to you, Scott," said Xavier. "The security risk of having Mr Toynbee treated as a normal resident of this establishment in return for his - restraint... in regards to Sara for one week. *Or*... you allow things to continue as they are with a chaperone of my choosing."  
"I'll stay away from him for a week," said Sara. "It's worth it to let him have the sun."  
"Sara..." objected Mort.  
"You shouldn't be locked away like an animal," she said. "I remember what that was like. One week? Chicken feed." She wiped her face. "We can survive one week."  
Scott weighed the bargain in the balance. One week. "One week," he said. "And then we renegotiate."

~

 

December 5th.

Dawn crept slowly over the snow-covered landscape. Somewhere near her balcony, but not actually *on* it, Sara was singing.  
News of that particular morning ritual had got around as fast as the men who were prepared to deliver bruises or worse to anyone trying to peek at it. After that, it became part of the routine, everyday business of a school that played host to many, *many* kids with varying idiosyncrasies.  
His glasses turned the snow a bright pink as he crunched across the desolate expanse. In a handful of minutes, the early risers would awaken and manufacture snow sculptures, snow angels, forts, snowballs, and - in general - make chaos out of the naked white order that had fallen during the night.  
But none would follow his tracks to disturb the snow into *this* grove. None would cavort and play in this secret little place.  
The place where Jean's memorial lay was sacrosanct.  
He bought flowers there, no matter what the cost, and cleaned the snow off the stone. And deeply regretted that her body had never been found.

"...sing sing a song... sing a soo-oonnng..." Sara opened her eyes. "Sing."  
Dawn's light always refreshed her. Made her feel better.  
As she leaned over to grab her robe, she spotted a desolate figure trudging into the trees. He was carrying flowers.  
Only the glint off his glasses identified him as Mr Summers.  
Forget the robe. She was getting dressed for the snow.

~

Scott reverentially dusted the snow off the cold memorial, reading again the words etched into the stone.

In the memory of Dr Jean Grey  
Dearly beloved

He picked the light dusting out of the dates, and swept the dead flowers aside in favour of the new.  
"I wish you were here to talk to," he whispered. "I wish you'd let us help... if only..." He sighed. There was no point in talking to stone. It was a dead thing. Jean wasn't here.  
She wasn't anywhere.  
There were no goodbyes for him. No closure.  
Just the stone... and the cold.  
"You come here every morning for her," said Sara.  
Scott whirled, facing the chameleonic girl. She was wrapped up like a mummy against the cold. Mittens, coat, muffler... the whole works. "What are you doing here?" he challenged.  
"I never knew her," she said. "I saw her on the TV once, speaking out against the Mutant Registration Act. She started me on the path that lead to the support BBS, the tolerance site..." a quirk of a smile, "the death threats... The whole deal. Even before I found out I'm a mutant myself... she started me thinking about what it was like on the wrong   
side of prejudice."  
Scott stiffened at the words she chose. "This is not the place for another debate."  
"No. I know. I'm stating a fact, Mr Summers. Dr Grey touched my life, too." She remained still, standing outside of the invisible barrier Scott had drawn around this place. A barrier everyone seemed to sense... and respect. "There's a philosophy that every life touches at least one other. Whatever good there is that they do... lingers in those other   
lives. And so long as that good lasts - the spirit of that person lives on. I rather like that philosophy. Can you guess why?"  
Mute, now, wondering what the hell she was up to, Scott shook his head.  
"Because there are those who, once touched by good, choose to perpetuate it. I don't think Dr Grey's spirit will ever be allowed to perish under that system."  
Scott thought about that. About the lives she saved on a daily basis. About the lives she saved in her final moments... and how they moved on, helping others.  
Even those who didn't strictly deserve such help.  
But then... Jean, too, had been plucked from the ashes of defeat by a very unique man. He remembered a strange, withdrawn girl who suffered from the voices in her head... Were it not for Xavier, she'd still be in some mental institution. Alive... but broken.  
She salvaged people in Xavier's name.  
Could he do no less for her?  
Unshed tears fell at last for her. The air went out of him and his knees cased him to fall.  
And without much sound at all, Sara was nearby. Lending comfort.  
"Remember with joy," she said. "And keep her spirit with you through your actions."  
All he could do was sob.

~

Listening to her sing, in the room they'd given him, was a unique kind of torture. Summers had to be some kind of sadistic bastard to give him quarters within listening distance of Sara's dawntime ritual.  
Just *knowing* that he was within feet of her... but shut away from the touch of her skin, the scent of her flesh, the very sight of her - naked or not - and knowing, also, that he was forbidden to go near any of her... that was worse torture for him than anything he knew.  
Not even the little dark room had been as bad as this.  
He closed his eyes, imagining a future one year and one week distant... with the two of them legally together as husband and wife. Watching in unadorned admiration as she danced in the new day.  
Perhaps he would join her dance, revel in her very presence and--  
_Stop it. We're not there yet, boyo. Plenty of water to go under the bridge._  
He couldn't allow himself that much want. It was already plain and already potentially dangerous... even though he explained. Or tried to explain.  
He didn't want to possess Sara.  
He wanted to give himself to her. Again and again, if necessary.  
He wanted to save her from her own wounds, to help her grow out of self-loathing and rise in beauty to be everything she *could* be.  
And he wanted to be with her, for as long as she wanted him.  
Mort rose from his bed and prepared for the day's work ahead. Basement stuff, most of it. Washing this or repairing that. Things that needed to be done every day so the world above the surface continued to chug merrily along.  
He saved every cent of his wages for a future he could only dream about. A wish... encapsulated in a golden band with a diamond in it.  
It was the only long-term goal he could afford to keep - and only then because he kept it deeply secret.  
The bastards couldn't take anything they didn't know about.

Ororo was used to Sara being distracted. The price of genius combined with a near-idactic memory was that it took a lot to keep it occupied. Every now and again, she would entertain the girl with a complicated concept, but beyond that, the necessary attendance was usually used to observe how teaching was *done*.  
Sara was more distracted than normal. Ororo could tell by the way her textbook was negligently open, no page yet turned, and her almost listless way of doodling.  
"Sara?" she prompted.  
Sara chewed on her pencil, looking down, but not *at* anything.  
"*Sara*?"  
"Hmn?" At last, she focussed on the board. "Heisenburg."  
Ororo tried valiantly not to fume. Obviously, Sara was in economy mode, today. "Elaborate, please?"  
"Heisenburg's uncertainty principle. The act of observing changes the subject being observed. Therefore, there are no definitive answers... no absolutes. We have best-fit assumptions, but that's all. There's no real answers, anywhere, to anything."  
Ororo looked to the board. Heisenburg had very little to do with the problem at hand. In fact, the gentleman mostly responsible was Newton. Either Sara was being purposely evasive, or her mind was miles from the actual classroom. "Can you give us a best-fit answer to this problem, please?"  
Again, she surfaced listlessly from whatever depths she was trying to return to. "Twenty-eight meters per second per second, plus or minus five meters per second per second, depending on the interferance vectors." She sank again, into the depths of her own thoughts.  
Ororo briefly considered the fight necessary to drag her back up again for a demonstration of the math involved, but decided against it. Whatever thought-problem had engaged her, it wasn't as interesting as real life, right now. She'd find out when Sara was bouncing off the walls in full-on entheusiasm mode, babbling at ninety words a second or even faster.  
Ororo demonstrated the math, but made a mental note about consulting the Professor with regards to Sara's on/off switches.

~

There was a numbness in work. Something to do in order to eliminate thought. He didn't have to think about his current situation vis-a-vis his personal relationship and the current lack thereof.  
_It's only a week,_ he reminded himself. _Seven days._  
Hell. He'd spent longer stretches of time in various forms of punishment and deprivation. Seven days was a lark.  
But then... he'd never had anyone *else* to worry about, before.  
He threw himself into peeling vegetables. He shouldn't have to worry. She had the freedom of the morning sun and the labyrinthine depths of the libraries and an infinite opportunity to stretch.  
She had everything she needed.  
With enough busywork she might even forget--  
His hand slipped and the peeler went into his thumb.  
"Gah! Fucking *Norah*![1]" He quickly put down his work and rinsed the wound. Cold water numbed his hand enough to allow him to inspect it. Geez. That was going to need professional help.  
The instant he found a paper towel to dry the wound, he was dripping all over the scenery. Fun.  
Mort improvised as best he could and tried to keep the red splashes off the floors that he would certainly have to clean, later.  
There was someone in the medical centre when he got there. There was always some minor mishap involving flying objects, mutant powers, or a combination of the two. All he could see of this day's victim was a pair of shoes past both Dr McCoy's and Wagner's backs.  
"...solutely not. I checked. She just - wasn't paying attention." Wagner shrugged. "By the time I realized what was happening... beendet. It was already over."  
"There," said Hank. "You can move, now."  
Wagner did, getting out of Hank's way.  
"Sara," Mort blurted. She bore few indications of physical injuries, bar a couple of adhesive medical strips. There were some gauze wrappings on an arm. "Wot th' *fuck*?"  
Wagner was looking agitated. "She walked straight when the stairs went down," he said. "There was no time..." His hands flexed helplessly. "If I was just a few paces further forward..."  
"Tell me she's gonna be all right?" Mort begged.  
"I'll make certain," Hank soothed. "You're bleeding, Mr Toynbee."  
"Mort," he corrected. "I'm allowed t' call you 'Hank', you should call me Mort." He allowed the house physician to take possession of his injured hand. Let himself be lead wherever he had to be. He didn't feel a thing as Hank probed, cleaned, stitched, antiseptized and bound his wound.  
He'd never known that fear for another was such a powerful anaesthetic.  
Wagner, hovering over her, met his gaze. "I'll watch over her," he promised. "You should get back to what you were doing, ja?"  
Mort held up his sore thumb. "Doubt if I'll be good for peelin' stuff."  
"Stay away from blades," Hank advised. "Any blades."  
"Righ'..." said Mort. At least it was his sinister hand that was injured. He could cope. Just. "Look after 'er?"  
"Take it as given." Hank escorted him out.  
It was the hardest thing in the world to walk away.

[1] I have no idea why people say that, but they do.

~

Sara opened her eyes to Mr Scott Summers hovering over her. _Talk about unwelcome awakenings... is it too late to feign a blur into consciousness and fake a coma until he goes away?_  
_Yes,_ 'said' the Professor.  
_Fudge._  
"What the hell were you thinking?" demanded Mr Summers. "This morning, you were a walking advice column and this afternoon, you're unconscious from falling down a flight of *stairs* that you didn't *see*.... What the hell is *UP* with that?"  
"I was working on something," she said. "Possible solutions to make the week go faster, combined with methods of proving Mortimer's integrity without actually communicating with him. I *meant* to walk down the hall, but I must've sidestepped in the wrong direction on autopilot." Her fingers became briefly intrigued by the gauze. "I'm guessing I fell into something breakable?"  
"You shouldn't *be* on 'autopilot' in the halls," Mr Summers raved. "Are you aware of how close you came to serious injury?"  
"Depending on the vectors, on a strictly straight-line basis, five centimetres to fifteen centimetres." She blushed. "I kind of absorbed a copy of Grey's Anatomy a long time ago, so I know where the arteries are... there were these rumours going around, and--"  
"Sara," said the Professor. "You're not usually this careless."  
"I don't usually come across social math," she said. "I'm still trying to define the Summers equation."  
"Social. Math," Mr Summers repeated.  
"Blame Pythagorus. He said everything is numbers, and - short of finding your file and riffling through it - your numbers are interestingly complex."  
He faced the Professor and said, "I'm an *equation*."  
The Professor was rubbing his lips and trying not to smirk. "Actually, the concept is rather interesting..."  
"You're not helping, sir."  
"Consider it, Mr Summers. You make judgements on people based on the company you keep; and yet, I'm the innocent in need of protecting whilst Mortimer is still technically evil for his quote-unquote 'work' with the megalomaniacal engine part."  
The Professor snorted.  
"You *are* innocent," he persisted. "You *believe* all the stuff he'd fed you. They're nothing but *lies*!"  
Sara sighed. "You haven't had the chance to observe without bias, sir. Before I figured out exactly who he was, I knew that there was a history of abuse. I gave him medical care, and I *know* what inflicted wounds look like. I also know what self-inflicted wounds look like... accidental or otherwise. The proportion of accidental scars is minimal - and they are the only self-inflicted wounds availlable."  
"You can't know how old those scars are - or how long he was working with Magneto."  
"I do know that some of them were rather fresh," argued Sara. "And I have a very *long* familliarity with the healing rate of wounds." She upturned her arms, showing the fine, pale lines across her scales where scars used to be on her pink flesh. "Vampire harp." She restrained herself from glaring at the man. "Where is your evidence, Mr Summers?"

~

Okay. Focus. He was older than her, he knew more about the world[1] than she did. He could beat her in this debate. Besides, she was recently concussed. If she passed out, he could win by default.  
_Wait. Stop,_ he told himself. _This isn't about winning... it's about saving her from a damaging decision._  
"He was at Liberty Island... *as* it became an event."  
"Yes. I know."  
"When he was there, he tried to *kill* Jean."  
"He tried to," she said. "He did not succeed."  
"He *could* have! If I hadn't found her in time--"  
"But you did. And you saved her." Sara began folding her infirmary sheet along the top seam. Making a linen concertina. "Do you blame Mortimer for her actual demise?"  
"*YES*!"  
"He wasn't there, Mr Summers. He has about two hundred fellow incarcerees as an alibi. Not to mention the assembled media filming us to see if we did anything vaguely entertaining."  
"He tried to kill Ororo, too."  
"Again, the word 'tried' emerges... my mother would be eager to tell you that there is no reward in trying. Therefore, to my mind, little punishment."  
"Attempted murder isn't enough for you?"  
"When we were in the camp, sir, Mortimer and I had a lot to talk about. There was very little else to do, you know. He told me he was sent down into your path as an expendable pawn. Should he have perished, no-one would have missed him. Least of all the man who rescued him from a life of squalor and poverty. I get the distinct impression that his efforts against you were deliberately lackluster. Enough of an effort to keep the bosses from calling, if you will[2]. He had no true motive to succeed, and every necessity to not fail." A calm, eerily cold glare. "I've been trapped in that twilight, myself. You'd be surprised where it can drive you."  
"The exploding locker incident..." mused Xavier.  
Sara nodded. "My last hurrah. My efforts against those enemies were non-lethal by choice. Their efforts against me were damn near lethal out of ignorance." Again, that cold stare-down. "Back then, I only had one person who would have missed me."  
"That's... obviously different."  
"Is it? Trapped in the care of a Dragon in an unfeeling environment? Being just useful enough to keep? The only real difference between Mortimer's past and my own is that he never had anyone to hold him until he'd cried himself out. There, but for the grace of God... as they say."  
"But he's *evil*!"  
"He's had more than one opportunity to prove himself so through his actions towards me," she said. "So far, he's taken his chance for redemption with open arms."  
Scott played his trump card. "What proof have *you* got that he won't turn against you, later?"  
"He's seen me dancing in the dawn's light - only once. The rest of the time, he kept his eyes averted. A purely evil man would have seized a very open opportunity."

[1] Try saying that to *anyone* who's lived through various disprovals of mythos in an all-girls' boarding school.  
[2] Side-fling to _Office Space_ Go watch it. Funny ^_^

~

"Bu--" Scott attempted. The image of a grown - and evil - man in the presence of a girl who was voluntarily naked closed his throat. In the presence of true evil, Sara would not have survived unmolested. She might not have survived at all. "Ju-- hi-- wa--" his brain completely derailed and he turned to the Professor. "Exploding locker incident?"  
"Two hundred and seventy-three lockers exploded at Carol Danvers High... on the exact date that Sara was expelled."  
"I was on my way out, anyway. What's a little larceny and petty revenge between enemies?"  
Hank's shoulders were shaking.  
"You were lucky no-one was *killed*!" Scott ranted.  
"Luck had nothing to do with it. Each device was completely non-lethal. Offensive - yes. Lethal - never."  
"The explosion in this case was nothing more than a small charge to ensure the doors flew open," said Xavier, "and that a payload was -ah- *delivered* to the target."  
Sara had a beatific smile on her face. "I still have the securicam footage on file. I tend to play it when I'm extremely depressed."  
Scott stared at her in a new light. "That's almost... psychopathic."  
"Yes. I know. But I never kill. People can't learn anything when they're dead." The smile faded completely, now. "I came close to murder, once. And only once. I have the Professor and Mortimer to thank for pulling me back from that brink."  
The world was turning upside-down. Little girls did not thank terrorists for preventing an act of utmost violence. Little girls did not blow up lockers as an act of 'petty revenge'...  
_Little girls do not hear other people's thoughts inside their heads,_ 'said' Xavier. _Nor do little boys accidently rip off their guardian's heads with a blast of concussive force from their eyes._  
"You're not being fair," he said to his mentor aloud.  
"Am I?"  
A quick glimpse of a memory. Sara. Angry - *furious* - at the old man who'd hurt the one she cared for. The ferocious colours of her skin were not nearly as violent as the waves of unadulterated bloodlust washing off her. The animal within was in control and it wanted swift and brutal justice.  
And then the very man who had spent years under the old man's heel stepped forward and said three words that drew the animal back. Don't become him.  
"She took down Mystique?" Scott boggled. "But she's *horrible* in Defence."  
Sara was looking at her fingernails. "All I really remember is that she was in the way after I punched him," she said. "I don't - recall... what I did or how. That's... very disturbing for me."  
And Sara was so *good* at remembering everything.  
"I can't accept that he's on the level," he finally admitted. "I know what he's done. I know what he's guilty of. He's... he's dangerous for you."  
"I'm dangerous for myself, Mr Summers," she said, indicating her new wounds. "If Mortimer was by my side, he would have steered me. Ergo, he has *some* vested interest in my continued wellbeing. You have to admit *that*, at the very least."  
Hank checked her pupillary responses. "There. All better. Though we shall be checking on you every couple of hours for a little while. Try not to dive down any more staircases, hm?"  
"If I do, I'll try to have better form," Sara joked. She checked her watch. "I missed all my classes."  
"I don't think you would have been there for them, anyway," said the Professor. "Even if you were present."  
Scott vaguely recalled Ororo saying something about her being miles away in class, that morning. After Physics, there had been Culture Studies with Kurt... sort of an advanced languages class so one could say what they *meant*, as well as what they wanted to say. And after that... her now-infamous tumble.  
Kurt had only left her side on a promise from him that he'd watch over her - and a small disaster upstairs that he had to adjudicate.  
He had to honour that promise, now.  
"Kurt should be having one of his black-and-white schlockfests up in the entertainment room," he said. "He... made me promise to see you safe, and--"  
"What better way than to hand me off to someone I like?" she said. "You can relax, Mr Summers. I reserve hate for those who can't help but purposefuly make my life a misery. You, sir, are a mere annoyance in comparison."  
For some reason, that was funny. "I can deal with that," he said.

~

Mort had endured the drudgery of the school's laundry facilities in lieu of being a kitchenhand. After that, there had been heavy lifting and hauling - taking in supplies and placing them in their various storage bins and hoppers.  
And after that... his time was his own.  
Which meant finding something to occupy his time and thoughts before he drifted, mothlike, towards the flame that was Sara.  
He had a bargain to keep.  
And miles to go before he could exhaust himself into a coma for the night.  
The mental image of her, hurt - let alone alarmingly still and quiet - clung to his mind and tickled his guilt with maniacal glee. It also gave him a seemingly endless supply of nervous energy to burn off. If only he was there. If only she hadn't agreed to that stupid deal. If only Summers wasn't such a complete dick[1]...  
God, he needed something to do. Right *NOW*. Or his head would fucking explode.  
He found the answer to his troubles in the school gym.

Ororo left the kitchen, heading for the gym. During down-time, Kurt was in one of four places: the chapel, the kitchen, the gym or the entertainment room. She usually checked them in order, owing to the least-cost flight path. Once she found him, there was always something to share and enjoy with him.  
Someone was working out, but the someone in the darkened gym was not Kurt.  
She could pick out a figure moving in slow repetition on a frame, but beyond that, there was little clue as to who he was.  
She flicked on the light, lending colour to the moonlit scene. Green skin stretched tight over sculpted, if wiry, muscle.  
The Toad was only wearing a pair of shorts and some wrist and ankle weights. She could pick out every fibre of his muscle as he put it to work.  
She could see every ancient scar on his person.  
Kurt's scars were beatuiful. A work of art in the understanding of pennance.  
These markings were a history of pennance, true, but they were anything but art.  
Long years of association with Jean helped her catalogue them. Glass bottle there. Cigarettes there. Some kind of whip or cord used like a whip until he bled. Knife wounds, criss-crossing or merging. The ugly snarl of a burn...  
They were all over him.  
Even the soles of his feet.  
He turned upside-down, revealling more marks. Some nearly surgical... most of them - not.  
The burn scar - or part of it - vanished inside the shorts.  
And most recent, on top of everything, were the marks she'd given him. The lightning she made left its traces in the history already drawn on his flesh.  
Sara had seen all of it. Treated it. Made it better... She knew the exact ins and outs of the pain she'd delivered. The lingering agony of recovery. She *knew*... and yet she still treated Ororo like a decent human being.  
Mort's eyes were open. "Enjoyin' the show, luv?"  
"I..." it was so difficult to meet those eyes. "I'm - sorry I hurt you."  
"I'm not," he said. "Gave me a new life, you did. Let me meet *her*." He eased his weight onto one arm, balancing whilst pushing himself slowly up and down. "It ain't every day you ge' a second life." He swapped hands.  
"I'm still sorry," she said. "I regret what I did."  
"It was you or me," he said. "Frankly, I never was keen on hurtin' pretty gels. 'D'rather take me lumps'n get it over with. Coulda done without some of it, but..." he flipped around, tumbling through the air to land in front of her. "It happened the way it did," he shrugged. "Water under the bridge, eh?" Mort offered his hand.  
She took it. Sort of cool and almost unnaturally smooth. "Water under the bridge."

[1] Fling to the first movie. C'mon... chorus the lines, now: "Hey. It's me."/"Prove it."/"You're a dick."/"Okay."

~

They were watching _The Bluebird_ with Shirley Temple. Some, like all true fans of MST3K, were heckling the living crap out of it. The quieter ones were appreciating the original dialogue, in-between seeking out lightweight munchables.  
A boy and a girl in the Land of the Future were refusing to part, despite the fact that it was time for the boy to be born.  
"But sir... we're in love."  
Sara, who had so far been silent in the shadows, sobbed once.  
Kurt glanced her way. Her ever-emotive skin was showing blues and greys.  
"I'll look for you," swore the girl. "I'll search everywhere."  
"Look for the saddest being on the planet," said the boy from the boat. "And you will find me."[1]  
And Sara just curled up in on herself and burst into tears.  
Kurt managed to escort her out of the room with a minimum of fuss. If word hadn't already gone around about her deal, then it was certainly going to get about *now*.  
The real problem, he thought as he attempted to escort her somewhere quiet, was that once one of her 'boxes' came undone, the entire cache of emotions just flooded right on out. This one was obviously feelings of emotional worthlessness, judging by what he could decipher of her tearful babble.  
Ah. There was Ororo in the gym. Maybe she could help.  
...and there was Herr Toynbee. Recoiling from her as if freshly scorched.  
If he were a more suspicious person, he'd have drawn a completely wrong conclusion from that brief picture and go off the deep end.  
But a more suspicious person wouldn't have noticed Toynbee's completely heartfelt look of terror at the sight of Sara in tears. Ororo just ceased to exist for him.  
"Trigger?" said Ororo. She'd seen something similar happen, albeit briefly.  
"Jawohl," he gingerly patted the poor girl on her back. "Swap?"  
"Sure." She scooped Sara off of him and left him with Toynbee, who was going from horrified to bloody furious with very few pitstops. "Peace, freund," he soothed.  
"Peace? You swore you'd bloody look after 'er!"  
"I can't prevent what I don't anticipate," he said. "There was no warning."  
His fists still flexed. "You don't get a lot of warnin's do ya?"  
"You never know when her seizures are going to happen..."  
Just like that, the anger ran out of him. "...fuck..." Only to be replaced by agitation. "Shit. You think she's doing this to herself? Wreckin' herself out of... out of... Some fuckin' thing..."  
"Anxiety?" Kurt prompted. "Worry? Fear?"  
"All of the above," he found a punching bag and whalloped it. "Seven fucking days an' I'm already goin' nuts after *one*. I'm gonna be pissin' myself after *three*..."  
Kurt, lost for a place to relax, made himself comfortable against a wall. "You know... Scott never actually forbade you to write letters to each other..." He smirked. "I'm certain he won't even think about it if you both keep it -ah- civil?"  
"Kurt?" said Mort. "I think I'm startin' to *like* you."

[1] IMO, this scene's way better acted in the Shirley Temple version than the crappy 80's remake. YMMV. The dialogue's from the best of my recall.

~

December 6.

"She fell down the stairs *AGAIN*?!"  
"I was caught in time," said Sara.  
"But I caught her this time," said Kurt at exactly the same moment.  
"Besides, it was a completely different set of stairs."  
"That's not helping, Fraulein."  
Scott tore at his hair, making a noise of strain from the effort of holding back on a fully-blown tirade. "Just tell me one thing," he said after he forced himself to relax. "Are you going to be tossing yourself down stairs for the entire *week*?"  
"I didn't *toss* myself," objected Sara. "I'd never do this sort of thing voluntarily," her voice fell to a hushed mutter, "...i'm afraid of heights..."  
"It's true," said Kurt.  
"Why does everybody else in this mansion suddenly become a font of information when you're around?" he wondered at Sara.  
"Perhaps I'm like a train wreck," she suggested. "People can't miss the spectacle."  
Kurt buried his face in his hands. "You are *not* helping, Fraulein."  
"Is it the same stuff as yesterday?" Scott demanded. "Because I thought we dealt with that."  
"No!" Sara vibrated with offense. "I never do anything the same way twice. This time, I was reading."  
"I thought you could speed-read..."  
"I was savouring the material."  
"What the hell was so-- no. Never mind. I don't know and I don't want to know. Just - for God's *sake* - *sit* somewhere, okay? No more walking on automatic."  
"I'll try not to."  
Scott stormed off on other morning business, muttering about damned teenagers and their innate knack for continued chaos.  
"My..." said Sara. "You'd think he'd been born at the age of thirty-something."  
Kurt laughed. "It's easy to forget you were young, once. Especially when you're worried about someone."  
"Hm... saviour complex meets barn door with a horse over the hill[1]. I've never actually witnessed it before..."  
Callisto entered, bearing a covered tray. "It turns out we don't really *need* an early warning system in this place. So long as three people are awake to gossip, news gets around quicker than light."  
"Well, there *is* Avery and I... Who else is an incurable insomniac?" Callisto put the tray down to slap herself on the forehead. "...good lord, she's actually thinking of implimenting it," she muttered. Louder, she said, "Kid... Mort heard about this morning's near-disaster and sent this up from the big kitchen. Special delivery."  
They were heart-shaped waffles and, judging by the scent, he'd absorbed her recipe by osmosis.  
Kurt was drooling. And whimpering.  
"It's the cinnamon," said Sara. "Gets them every time." She allowed herself one selfish forkful. Mmmm... maple syrup, too. "Am I allowed to share?"  
"I believe the man said, and I quote, 'tell any vultures 'angin' around that there's a limited time offer in the kitchens'."  
{Bamf!}  
"Darn. I didn't get to the 'first come, first served' part..."  
"Metabolism from hades," said Sara. "Any kind of teleporting would just guzzle energy. QED."  
Callisto subtly turned on the ceiling vents in the cosier above-ground kitchen. "How can you still eat after *that* smell?"  
"It's just *sulphur*, dear. Completely harmless. Besides," another forkful, "maple syrup cannot be denied."  
"Sugar junkie."  
"The worst."

[1] Sara shorthand. She thinks Scott's guarding the barn after the horse has been stolen.

~

"What the hell do you *MEAN* she jumped through a window?" Logan demanded. "I left you in charge for five freakin' minutes..."  
"If both of you gentlemen could be so kind as to get out of my *LIGHT*," menaced Hank, "perhaps I can find and extract all of this *glass*..."  
"I *mean* we broke for a little fun, someone said 'Hey Sara, go long', and before I could turn around to yell at anyone - *crash*... she'd jumped through the freakin' window."  
"Trying to catch a frisbee," Hank tisked.  
"I think it was a nerf football... Either way, she missed."  
"Didn't miss the window," muttered Logan.  
"It was a big window," said Scott. "She couldn't possibly miss."  
Sara was in no condition to protest. The 'sedative' Hank had administered to dull the pain had put her into a foggy realm that was half a dream. Right now, she was watching imaginary fish play with her dangling fingers... which were lengthening into some form of frondlike kelp. And since it was either that, suffering her injuries, or being hooked up to a machine that breathed for her; Hank had wisely decided to go with the least problematic solution.  
"...th' monkey took th' kumquats..." she murmured.  
Neither arguing men payed any attention to this, whatsoever.  
"I *told* you to look out for her..."  
"Avery was demonstrating how he could be a freaking rail gun[1]..."  
"*Light*, gentlemen..." growled Hank. "As in, take your argument out of *mine*."  
{Bamf!} "Incoming! Duck and cover, I'll try to hold him off!" {Bamf!}  
All three present[2] had just enough time to say, "What the--?" before Kurt's agitated message became clear.  
The meaning manifested itself in the form of an extremely pissed-off mutant otherwise known as Mortimer Toynbee.  
"You fuckin' yankee *bastard*!" Mort hollered before he impacted with Scott. One sucker-punch, and he was on top of the man, trying to strangle him and lift him by his shirt at the same time. "You were supposed to be lookin' after her! That was part of the fuckin' *DEAL*! How could you let this *HAPPEN*?"  
"...y've gotta be quiet, dear... th' skitterlings'll hear you..."  
Mort dropped Scott like a bag of offal and tried to insert himself under the frame currently supporting his beloved. "O God... please tell me you're okay, luv? Please be all right?"  
"...no... 's half left at Alberquerque..." Sara muttered. Her skin was turning interestingly psychadelic colours. "...h'lo? we allowed t' dance now?"  
Mort poked his head above the frame. "The *fuck* did you give 'er?"  
Hank continued tweezing shards of glass out of her skin with both hands. "Given miss Adrien's history with regards to medication, I thought it best to go with something extremely mild. It was two millilitres of acetominophen and codeine in a twenty-percent solution."  
"...wheeeee..." burbled Sara. "...dance, little fishies..."  
"The upside is that she's feeling absolutely no pain."  
"...i like pie..."

[1] Affinity with electronics plus the correct type of wiring plus *NO* sense of restraint equals chaos.  
[2] Sara's not at home right now ;)

~

Ororo found him just as he was managing to pick himself up, and helped him the rest of the way to verticality. "Kurt... What *happened* to you?"  
There was some nasty swelling happening on one side. Distorting his features. "Make a note, liebchen... Never. *EVER*. Get between people who are deeply in love... when one of them is hurt." He gingerly probed the impact site and winced. "Don't hurt him on my behalf? He wasn't in his right mind."  
"I heard about Sara versus the window and knew there'd be fireworks, but... did you have to get in his *way*?"  
"He had murder in his eyes. What else could I do?" Unstable on his feet, Kurt leaned on her for support. "Ach... I admit it wasn't one of my *brighter* moments, though."  
"Kurt... there have been brighter moments in the *dark*."  
The scene in the infirmary made an interesting tableaux. Sara was face-down in a massage frame whilst Hank busied himself with removing tiny shards of glass. Underneath the frame, Mort was blatantly breaking the arrangement by attempting to talk to the girl.  
Logan was just helping Scott up to his feet, the latter of whom had obviously *also* been run over by a speeding Toad.  
"...five nine two six five three five eight nine[1]..." Sara was reciting in a dreamy voice.  
"Thanks for your 'help'," Scott drawled.  
"*I* wasn't gonna get in his way," said Logan.  
"But you'd *heal*."  
"...two three eight four six two six four three three eight three..."  
Mort waved his hand in front of Sara's eyes. "Hey," he cooed. "Hey, now, luv."  
Ororo hauled Kurt over to a spare bench and went hunting for ice packs. Both he and Scott were going to need them.  
"So will you," said Logan. "I just do it quicker. That doesn't mean I actually *like* getting injured."  
"...five oh two eight eight four two one one... hello mortimer."  
"Nice of ya to see me," he smirked.  
Kurt was grateful for the ice pack. "Oooohhhhh... oh ja..."  
Scott was in less than high spirits. "Ouch. I'm sure I should -ow- lock one of them up, but -eech- I can't decide which one..."  
"I vote 'neither'," said Logan. "They both have friends an' it'll be a revolt."  
"You gotta admit -oooh- that kid needs a padded room."  
"...what are *you* doing with the fishies?"  
Mort clasped one of her hands. "Keepin' you company, of course."  
"'That kid', as you put it, needs more than just protecting," said Kurt. "She needs help to heal."  
"Not just physically," added Ororo. "Though 'physically' is fast becoming a problem."

[1] Sara also likes Pi.

~

Mort knew his time with her was fast running out. Any second, now, they'd get over debating about preventative measures and get back on to the issue of who currently didn't belong where he currently *was*.  
Therefore, he savoured every instant. He bought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers, absorbing her scent into his mind.  
Warm, clean woman with a hint of lilac.  
The lilac was an eternal mystery. Sara didn't use perfume, owing to her spectacular reaction to alcohol. She stayed away from perfumed hygiene products as a matter of paranoia. And, owing to the various allergies contained within the mansion, potpourri was out of the question.  
Besides, he'd gained covert sniffs and overt sniffs during the weeks when all they had to wash with was water. The lilac was an eternal part of her.  
He could get high just sniffing her.  
"...beware th' drangletts..."  
Pity conversation wasn't an option. There was no hint as to whether she'd even remember any of this, afterwards. "I'll try, luv," he said. He had no idea what the hell 'drangletts' *were*, but he'd ask her about them - and the 'skitterlings' - when she was fully cogniscient. "You do something for me?"  
"...okeh..."  
"You try an' remember to look after yourself, okay?"  
"...okeh..."  
"I don't want t' see you hurt."  
"...o mortimer... wish you were real..."  
"I'm 'ere for ya," he soothed, running his fingers gently over the warping patterns in her scales. "For as long as I can stay."

~

Kurt and Ororo conspired together to drag him out with as much dignity as he could muster... which wasn't a lot, really. He'd lingered over-long and tried valliantly to stay in physical contact with her for as long as humanly possible.  
"...th' fish stole m' bicycle..."  
"I'll sort 'im out. I gotta go, luv."  
"...don' trip on th' woozles..."  
"Okay." Ororo was tugging gently on his arm. "I'll... do me best."  
Her fingers slipped from his and almost drifted back into their rest position. "...th' carousel unicorns escaped..."  
"I love you," he whispered as he lost sight of her. Anxiety spasmed within. The one he felt for was *gone* again. He had to believe, utterly, that she would be waiting for him at the end of the week. He could already feel the old psychoses eating at him. Would they come back? Would they still want him? What could he *do* without someone to guide him along? Where was he, without a living compas-point to steer by?  
_Stop that right now, Morty,_ he told himself. _Sara won't want a wrecked man for her birthday._  
Shit.  
Her *birthday*.  
"I need t' get her present," he blurted. "The party's on in five bleedin' *days*..."  
"Tonight," Ororo promised.  
"We'll take you wherever you need to go," added Kurt.

Scott volunteered to haul Sara back to her room and be her spotter until she came down. At least, given their similar heights, she was easy to guide-carry along.  
"...g'nyeaurgh..."  
Correction. *Relatively* easy to guide-carry along. He knew from her babblings that she was seeing things... and now that she was walking, that meant flinching in random directions in moments of least convenience.  
"...neeeee!"  
And it was only just *starting* to get homicidally annoying[1].  
"...waugh..."  
_Oh for fuck's *sake*..._ "*What*?" he demanded.  
"...crawling all over," she muttered. "...infested."  
_I need a teep._  
A youthful 'voice' entered his head, alongside the image of a purple butterfly. _Can I help?_  
_I need to see what Sara's seeing. She's not exactly... communicative, right now,_ he 'told' Betsy[2].  
A pause. _You sure you want to do that?_ she 'said'. _Sara's sorta between dreams and waking... make that 'nightmares and waking'._  
_I just need to see what to avoid so she doesn't keep yanking away from me._ He had two flights of stairs to combat and by now, the entire school knew what *that* meant. So much so that voluntary bodyguards were turning up whenever she went *near* a flight of stairs, for fear that she'd take a small flight off of them. Again.  
_All righty, then. Don't say I didn't warn you. Contact in five... four... three..._  
He never 'heard' the rest of the countdown. He was too fixated on the *Things* that were fading into his field of vision.  
And he thought *he* was fucked up in the head.  
Take one creative genius. Add an active imagination. Filter through the standard childhood fear of the dark and stir with some better-known literary classics. The end result was a positive phantasm of disturbing creatures.  
All. *Over*. The freaking. Hallway.  
Betsy had tried to help by supplying the images in living colour. Scott was so used to seeing shades of red that - in theory - the real-colour nightmares shouldn't have seemed real.  
Instead, it somehow made them more terrifying.  
_See what I mean?_ 'said' Betsy. _This is mondo psycho._  
Scott, upon seeing a purple weasel-like creature 'swim' in and out of reality, revealling itself to be pythonesque in length, had to agree. There were blobbish creatures - with black-and-white markings, elephantine trunks, and udders - oozing across the corridor through doors that weren't there. There were thousands upon thousands of black scuttling things that somehow gave off the vibe that they were deadly poisonous. There were things that weren't entirely *there*... posessing octupoid, yet dripping tentacles dangling below what he could only assume were their eyes, and bodies that stretched upwards into nothingness.  
Betsy helpfully supplied information. The purple weasel-pythons were 'woozles', the blobbish things were 'hefferlumps', the insectoid poison-critters were 'skitterlings' and the creepy half-there nightmares drifting on the air currents were 'drangletts'. And by the way, *DO NOT*, under any circumstances, look into any shadows.  
Scott peeked once - and like the ancient mariner; walked on, and no more turned his head[3].  
He wasn't going to sleep easily, tonight. That was certain.  
And yet he had to pilot Sara through this to a safe haven and keep her out of real danger while she reacted to phantoms.  
_They're not really real,_ he reminded himself. _Just focus on keeping Sara away from them and away from danger and we'll both be fine... Yeah, Scooter. Keep fooling yourself. It has to be done, so go do it._  
He broke out in a cold sweat before he got to the first staircase.

[1] So annoying that you start contemplating murder.  
[2] Yes, Betsy Braddock. AKA Psylocke. I made her movie version teenaged ;)  
[3] All I know by heart of the _Ryme of the Ancient Mariner_ is as follows, "Like one who on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, having once turned round, walks on, and no more turns his head... because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread." I probably got the punctuation wrong, but I love love *love* that quote.

~

"Okay," Scott drawled, feeling an intense relief to have made it into Sara's room. The various mind-spooks[1] were still scurrying around, but he'd achieved a goal. A safe haven. An environment which, as far as everyone knew, Sara had yet to hurt herself in. The creepyness of some of her 'decorations' was more than enough to creep him out without   
having to deal with the phantasms from her mind. Some of them, even taken individually, made him wonder about the exact nature of her sanity.  
All of them combined, however, made him bloody certain.  
Butter-flish - hybrids of butterflies and fish - swam/flew through the mirror and cavorted in the room. They seemed impervious to the machinations of the nightmares.  
Who knew? Maybe dreams and nightmares existed separately in Sara's mind.  
Wait. Scratch that. A dranglett just ate one.  
_Why the fuck am I even taking notes?_ he wondered. "Heeeere we go," he cooed. "You have some *niiiiiiice* quiet-time here on your bed. And here's a book you can read..."  
She fumbled her way completely under a blanket and - like a miracle - the creatures disappeared. There were mere suggestions of them, now... flickering around the edges of Sara's bed.  
Scott breathed a sigh of relief and made himself comfortable in her reading corner - a space he shared with Dead Fred and a fake dusty book entitled _Forgotten Lore_.  
_It's official. The girl is nuts._ He found a book he could actually enjoy and sent to Betsy, _All right. You can cut off the contact, now._  
_You're sure?_ 'said' her astral representation. _Something important might crop up..._  
Sara's arm, blending with the scenery, withdrew a snorkel and a flashlight from a drawer and dragged them back under the covers. After a few seconds, the snorkel emerged.  
_I think there won't be that much action any time soon._  
_If you saaay sooo..._ Betsy singsonged.  
_You're not getting me to volunteer to dip into her nightmares, Betsy, so quit trying to set me up._  
_Rats._ There was a hint of real-world communication on her side of the link. A vague impression of a small crowd. And a disappointed one at that.  
_Are you and some others *up* to something?_  
_No..._ she 'said'. _Not yet, anyway._  
Just what he needed. An anti-Scott conspiracy. _Tell them the Professor draws the line at mess-making pranks._  
Now they were severely disappointed.  
_You know she's doing this out of subliminalized stress,_ wheedled Betsy. _She's only going to have more and more spectacular accidents as time goes by. And Mort'll get hurt, too._  
_Mort?_  
A blush infused the purple butterfly. _He's been showing us some cool stuff... and stuff._ Somewhere on the other end of the telepathic 'line', Betsy's hands were wringing. _He's actually kinda cool, you know._  
_Get back to your lessons, Betsy,_ he told her. Deal or no deal, he had to do something about Toynbee corrupting the rest of the kids.  
"...luuuuke... luuuuuke... i ang you phaaaarrrzhaaaarrr..." said Sara through the snorkel.  
Later. *After* Sara resumed operating in normal space.

[1] A term I made up when confronting the Things In The Dark.

~

"I'm serious," Betsy was telling the attentive crowd. "Nightmares all *over* the freakin' place. Living colour, surround sound... she even had tactile feedback."  
"Whoah..."  
In a darkened corner, Mort muttered, "...'kinell..."  
"And he *shared* all of that?"  
"I tried to tone it down, honest," said Betsy, "but *I* could feel 'em and I was like, *way* out of the projection zone. It was too much all at once. And Mr Summers just gritted his teeth and soldiered right on through them. Sometimes literally."  
One of the older kids whistled backwards.  
"Darn it, how do you *do* that?" demanded Jamie. "I've been trying for weeks..."  
"It's a knack. You'll get it."  
"I still say you should have formed a permanent link," said Ray. "He might be redeeming himself, but he's still being a jerk."  
"He was born a jerk," dismissed Amy.  
"Hey. C'mon," said Mort. "Even jerks get a chance to get better."  
Everyone stared at him.  
"Are you *serious*?" said Jubes. "He's been the biggest jerk of all to you."  
"'E's go' 'is reasons," said Mort. "Di'n't make a good first impression."  
"That's not a reason to be a king-sized jerk," said Rogue. "I mean, half of us prob'ly shot at him, right?"  
"Accident or design?" asked Ray.  
"In your case, probably both," cracked Bobby. "But you're right. We've all done stuff to him in one way or another... Logan took his bike *and* his car... and he still deals with us like we're everyday people."  
Jubes had a nasty smirk crawling across her face. "Is anyone else pondering what *I'm* pondering?"  
"I think so, Brain, but where are we going to get a bucket of soapy frogs at this hour?"[1]  
"Hardy har har..." Jubes glared daggers at the comedian. "*I* was pondering a little... civil disobedience combined with a prank war. What's Sara's phrase, Mort?"  
"Kharmic re-alignment," he supplied. "You lot remember to keep it low-key, awrigh'?"  
"Okay," said Ray. "First rule of the Scooter Conspiracy - do not talk about the Scooter Conspiracy..."[2]  
"...gordon *bennet*..." muttered Mort.

[1] Side fling to both _Pinky and the Brain_ *AND* one of the _Red Dwarf_ books.  
[2] _Fight Club_ ^_^ Never seen it though.

~

"What?" Ray demanded.  
"Does the phrase, 'livin' in the same 'ouse as the world's most powerful bleedin' telepath' ring any bloody alarm bells, cocky? It's not bloody talkin' 'bout it that ya gotta worry about." Mort sighed. "Not that it won't be all around the bloody school by tomorrow any-bloody-way..."  
"It's okay," said Amy. "The Professor taught us how to do psychic shields."  
Mort rubbed at an incipient migrane. "Put it this way, luv. How to you secure your house when the village locksmith turns out t' be the village thief?"  
"But the Professor isn't *like* that. He respects our right to privacy."  
"Yeh? An' yer all plannin' to use that *against* him?"  
That bought on a contemplative, and rather morose, silence. Each and every one of them owed Xavier in their own ways. From his kind and generous heart to his openly understanding mind... and the unique way he had of being a keystone in their new lives. They all knew where they'd be without Professor Xavier, and down which dark and dismal road they'd be if it hadn't been for his guiding hand.  
It occurred to Mort that Charles and Sara were woven from the same thread. It's just that Xavier had more readily availlable resources.  
"So Scooter gets away with being a dickwad, is that it?" Ray sniped.  
"Never said *that*, kid. You want to pull pranks on Summers? Fine. Just be willin' to take whatever the ol' boy decides to dish out. It *is* about justice, right?"  
A definitive murmur of assent.  
"So let it *be* about justice. You step over the line, you get what you deserve. End of bloody story."  
"I notice you never say 'we'," said Ray.  
"Me? I'm on bloody parole, mate. I know better than to go *near* any bleedin' lines."  
"You can't," said an adult voice, "but *I* can."  
Everyone turned in fear.  
Logan lit a fresh cigar[1]. "Me an' Slim don't get along. Think he kinda likes it that way..." puff. "Any shit I give him's likely to be part of the scenery."  
"You're not gonna rat us out?"  
"Me? Fuck no. I'd *love* to see Shades get his." He took another drag. "Besides. I kinda like Tallwater."  
"Why? She fails every one of your classes."  
"That'll change," said Logan, and dropped that subject with an almost audible clang. "You want to piss Shades off? Scooter's a good start."  
"Give it an edge," said Mort. "Like... *mister* Scoo'er. The right balance between respect - an' absolute arse."  
Logan gave him an appraising look. "I can see what Tallwater sees in ya."  
_Good,_ thought Mort. _Less shit in my fan[2]..._ He grinned.  
"But if ya hurt her, I'll cut yer heart out an' feed it to ya. Got it?"  
"Gospel, mate," said Mort. "Hell, if I hurt her, I'd cut me own bloody heart out."  
"Glad we understand each other." Logan grinned back. "Now. You've known the enemy longer'n any of us. What else shits him off?"

[1] Is it me, or has he always got a stub or half-stogie in the films?  
[2] I just made that up and I'm loving it.

~

"...owie," Sara moaned. "I have the single *worst* case of cotton-mouth. Bleh."  
"That's what you get for breathing through a snorkel for half an hour," said Scott. Then reality caught up with him. "You're cogniscient?"  
Sara emerged from her cocoon, looking slightly haggard. "I was living in dreamland, wasn't I?"  
"Something close to it." He spent a great deal of effort not smirking. "It's okay. I was keeping watch. Made sure you didn't do anything overtly embaressing."  
She blushed, despite her under-the--weather pallor. "I didn't say anything... awful, did I?"  
"Kid, you barely said anything *intelligable*." He put the book he'd been reading back in its place. "I'll keep your bizarre subconscious to myself. Promise. You okay to walk to the kitchen?"  
Sara disentangled herself, putting things away in the manner of a marionette - one manipulated by a complete newb. Watching her stand was an exercise in Zen and the Art of Repeatedly Not Flinching. "Just," she finally announced. "Not all of the controls are responding."  
He offered his elbow. "Hopefully a drink and something resembling a solid meal should help." Then he saw what some of the kids had set up.  
Kitty was obviously in on part of it. Few others at the school were capable of rigging the old bucket-on-the-door from the *outside* of a room.  
"Oh *dear*," Sara sighed.  
"Just wait a second." He strode forward and steadied the pail, then jerked open the door. "All right, you little--"  
{splatasplatasplatasplutasplat} A positive volley of water balloons soaked him from head to toe. And, to add insult to injury, the pail soaked him when he instinctively flinched to ward them off.  
The perpetuators scattered to the four winds, laughing all the way.  
"I love my work," he sarcasmed.

~

"You're absolutely certain you can look after yourself in here?" said Mr Summers for the umpty-umpth time.  
"You're dripping on the tiles, sir," she said. "I have a tub of chocolate-fudge ripple Haagen Daas[1], a full can of whipped cream, and all the ungodly toppings I could dream of. And a spoon. Why would I wish to get up?"  
"Right. I'll be gone ten minutes, tops." He ducked out, trying not to slip in his own footprints on the way.  
Sara smirked. He was such a wet hen, sometimes. Were it not for his predilection towards judging once and never again, she could get to like him. Now that he was gone, she gave herself a shot of whipped cream the fun way[2] and considered this evening's gastronomic perversion.  
Ice cream, layer of Ice Magic[3], ice cream, lime topping, sprinkles, ice cream, a gloop of caramel, some more Ice Magic and then whipped cream in any place that looked bare.  
Aaaah. Sugar jag combined with art. Her favourite.  
"Y'know, most people just eat the ice cream out of the tub when they're feeling down," said Kitty.  
"Most people don't enjoy sugar overloads as much as I do." Sara delicately scooped out a cross-section and savoured it. Oooohhhh yeah. That was the stuff. "And in lieu of drugs, this helps the pain diminish into something less important."  
"Yeah, I heard you were pretty high this afternoon." She found a bowl and a spoon and made herself something a lot milder.  
"Bless my ideosynchratic bloodstream, yes," said Sara. "I'm never amazed about the rumour mill, though. Just how awful are they making it out to be?"  
Kitty looked perplexed. "As bad as it *was*," she said. "You learn not to embellish with telepaths in the house."  
Sara considered this around a mouthful of sugar, artificial flavourings, and polyputthekettleon 3[4]. "Now *there* would be a marvellous little gift mother would definitely not have appreciated." She paused to lap fudge from her spoon. "She couldn't cope with the mere knowledge that I'm a mutant... imagine having to cope with the *exact* details of what other people think." Another shot of whipped cream. "You know... I could almost wish it on her."  
Kitty gave herself a shot. "Mnu-uh," she said. "Teeping is hell. And not user-friendly, either. Take it from someone who roomed with someone who was a teep."  
"This is a true story," prattled Sara. "It happened to a friend of a friend of mine...[5]" she giggled. "The sugar's kicked in, I'm free-associating."  
"I love it when that happens," said Kitty. "It's like mental fission. You really need someone to stop you before there's a mushroom cloud."  
"I only make mushroom clouds in tanks," said Sara. "Which reminds me of this really fun movie I made once..."  
"And this one time? At band camp?[6]" said Kitty.  
"Have you heard that one?"  
"No, but I recognise the theme." She waved a spoon while she processed a mouthful. "Post-apocalyptic parody in the basement-slash-garage?"  
"Well, mother was off on a series of quote-unquote 'sleepovers' with her social circle, so we got some exterior filming in. Junkyards, mostly."  
"But of course."  
"Dead Fred did a *lot* of cameos. He does drag very well."  
Kitty cracked up.  
"Of course, I had to make up some dupes for the crowd scenes, but I got my money back on Halloween sales. Someone bought an entire _Rocky Horror_ set for their porch."  
"Eeeuuwww," Kitty laughed. "*Sick*!"  
"You should have seen what he did with 'Magenta'."  
"*EUW*!"  
They both fell to cackling like hens. It might have been a bad day, but sugar sped her mind into the Now and laughter boosted the endorphins she needed to forget her aching back. The only thing that could make it perfect would be having Mort with her... _Carpe munus[7], Sara Louise._ And with that thought, she let herself skim from minute to minute, enjoying the good.

[1] Gourmet ice cream people. I'm not sure if I spelled them correctly, alas.  
[2] Directly into the mouth. Just saw this in _Joan of Arcadia_ ^_^  
[3] Chocolate stuff that sets hard in the cold. Now availlable in mint and orange flavours of chocolate as well as the original.  
[4] If you've read Terry Pratchett's _Bromeliad_ series, you know all about Polyputthekettleon ;)  
[5] The traditional opening to _Freaky Stories_, an animated series containing urban myths.  
[6] I had to throw in a riff to _American Pie_  
[7] I *think* it's "Sieze the moment[present]" in Latin. Translation provided by InterTran and all corrections from Latin!nerds eagerly accepted.

~


	2. 2

December 7.

It was going to be a very, *very* long day. He could tell.  
It had already been a long night, owing to the theme song karaoke stomp party one of the kids had decided to throw directly above his room. Just how many people could stand to sing _Star Blazers_ in a row anyhow? He'd had to get up ten times to tell them to keep it down to a dull roar.  
Scott lurched into a sitting position, feeling like Dead Fred looked[1]. At least his morning routine allowed him to fumble through his first minutes with his eyes shut. He took a drink from his bedside glass, ridding his mouth of the dry stuff that always seemed to accumulate overnight. Next, shower, shave, and locate some clean clothes.  
Thank God for the invention of ensuites.  
Five steps *that* way from the corner of his bed, there's the door. Toilet *there*. Hah. Someone had glued the seat to the lid. _Funny, people. *Verrrrry* funny..._ The kids always seemed to forget that he was used to being blind. And managing certain things with little other guidance than sound and feel[2]. Later on in the morning, he'd quietly put things back to normal with the help of some solvent.  
He felt his way into the shower and revelled in bodywash and hot water. It always felt good to be *clean*.  
And the kids had put something sticky in his shampoo.  
Lovely.  
He got most of it out, but the stuff thinned and thinned but could not go completely away in the time he allotted himself for the shower.  
He had a date to keep.  
Swearing under his breath, Scott found a towel and buffed himself into dryness, seeking the drawer where he put his next day's clothes.  
_Bonus points, kiddies, for abducting my gear. Too bad for you I only do that for expediency._  
The kids got *extra* bonus points for completely emptying his closets and drawers of everything but one clothing option.  
Lederhosen.  
The complete traditional get-up. Even the funny little hat, which he decided to forgo.  
He found his glasses by an earpiece and put them on.  
Something felt *wrong*.  
He felt the frames. Awkward projections everywhere. They wouldn't go to *that* extreme, surely...  
He opened his eyes for a fraction of a second. No sound of deadly force. No cacaphony of destruction.  
Scott breathed out. They'd just changed the frames.  
He opened his eyes and checked the mirror.  
_Oh. My. Fucking. God..._  
His skin looked different. Darker.  
They'd either put dye in the body wash or the showerhead. Or both, since the colour was more-or-less even. His hair spiked in all directions, and refused to obey the comb. Apparently, exposure to cooler, dryer air caused the stuff to set like glue. But the sweet smell?  
He risked a taste.  
Honey.  
They couldn't resist the classics, it seemed.  
The glasses didn't go with the lederhosen. They wouldn't have gone with anything, except perhaps a drag queen on a bender. The rhinestones were a cute touch. And the exaggerated sort-of-eyelashy projections that made it just look - euw.  
Now he remembered why he thought 'drag queen'... there was some Australian comedian that the History chanel was poring through his life, practically non-stop. They guy's drag act featured glasses like these. He'd never thought it was particularly funny.  
He didn't think it was all that hillarious, now.  
But - before he could figure out how to get rid of this mess, he had one thing to do.

{knock knock knock}  
"Mrrrfff..." Ororo groaned.  
"...funf weitere Minuten..."  
She yawned, throwing on a shift and extracting herself from Kurt's grip[3]. Which took some serious untangling.  
"Liebe?"  
"I got it." She lurched towards the door.  
{knock knock knock}  
"Yeah yeah yeah. I'm gettin' there." Her jaw cracked with the power of her last yawn, which also forced her to close her eyes. She winced them shut. "This had *better* be good," she said. "Do you know what *time* it is?"  
"I won't be long," said Scott. "First things first. What colour am I?"  
Ororo opened her eyes to boggle at the man. Then burst out into hysterics.  
It took him half an hour to find out he was berry-purple.

[1] Remember the phrase, "You look how I feel"? This is somewhat of a reversal.  
[2] I'm not asking, but there *has* to be a way.  
[3] So I like Kuroro Movieverse shipperdom. Deal.

~

_Darling Mort,_ the note read. _First, I simply must appologise for taking my time in penning this reply. As you can understand, my schedule has been unexpectedly upset. At least this time, instead of my usual meeting with the stairs, it was an unforseen meeting with a window._  
_Hank insisted on giving me a painkiller. I was out of the loop for several hours. Hallucinating all sorts of bizarre and interesting things._  
_I saw you in there, too. I guess the brain summons what it desires most in times of stress or strain._  
Mort stopped reading. "I *was* there, luv," he whispered. But then, he knew what it was like to doubt reality.  
He did a literary double-take on the last few words he'd read. The brain summons what it desires most.  
What it desires most...  
She wanted him with her. Missed him. Desired him.  
That phrase alone would keep him warm for hours.  
_And just in case you were there,_ Sara continued, _thanks for trying to talk to me. Even though I couldn't understand a blessed thing you said. It all came into my ears like the muted trumpet thing they did for the teachers in those old _Charlie Brown_ cartoons._  
_My trip to Pepperland[1] aside for the moment, I hope that this letter finds you in less pain than I'm enduring. It simply won't do to have us both suffering for this chance. No hurling yourself into objects solid, breakable or other. That includes sharp objects and hot things. That's an order._  
"Yes, Ma'am," he breathed.  
_I do want to be able to dance with you during my birthday party without causing excess discomfort to either of us; so please, please take good care of yourself._  
_And speaking of birthdays, I sent a marvelously ascerbic and catty un-invitation to my alleged 'dear darling' mother. Kept a copy for you to laugh at when we finally meet for better times._  
_The rest of the student body have apparently taken up arms against our particular misfortune... or rather, the gentleman chiefly responsible. This morning's assault apparently involved purple dye, lederhosen, honey and drag-queen supreme frames for the necessary spectacles. Or is that 'spectacle'? I have seen the purple, since the dye tends to linger, but alas, he'd found himself some proper clothes and eyewear since he was 'hit'._  
_I've requested that, in the event of further pranking, they take photographs so that others may enjoy the full effect. I've also informed them that a public webpage on the subject is going entirely too far._  
_Write soon, beloved. Knowing that there is *one* line of communication open to us is enough to get me through the day._  
_Missing you from here, Sara Louise._  
Mort sighed, kissed the note, and added it to his little stash of similar missives in his room. Re-reading her rambling letters gave him solace in the lonely nights. He smirked at the thought of an 'un-invitation' and could only wonder at the sort of fallout that such an item would produce.

Sam heard the scream clear across the house. And considering the size of the house, that was either an impressive feat or a truly phenominal scream. He did not, as he used to do, run. There was a subtle difference between Jaquelline's I've-just-hurt-myself scream and her I'm-outraged scream. Long familliarity with the latter over the past few weeks had made him almost immune to her histrionics. Almost. He still loved her so badly that it hurt to see her like this.  
He'd encouraged her to 'take a holiday' from her side of the family. Otherwise known collectively to his mind as the Harpie-vultures. Not only did they harangue and assault one, they also plucked at one's tender portions, tearing one up inside and out.  
So far, it had helped some of the core of Jaquelline to emerge, but old habits died hard.  
Such as the need to blame someone else.  
Jaquelline was red-faced and fuming when he reached her. "That *GIRL*! That *girl* of yours... she-- she-- *ARGH*! Just *read* what she had to say!"  
Sam picked up the crumpled stationary and schooled himself to keep his face blank.  
_Mommy Dearest,_ Sara had written. _Just a little note to let you know I'm more than adequately prepared for your absence from my seventeenth birthday party on the 12th of this month. I understand that you'll be entirely too busy with your other social concerns to attend._  
Sam bit his lip. Jaquelline's 'social concerns' had vanished like fog the instant the news of her abuse of Sara had got out. She was alone and uncomforted by the people she'd thought of as her friends. All she had left was wherever Sam took her as part of her continuing therapy.  
_I'm also well aware of your aversion to mutant-kind, and thought it best to exclude you from the guest list, since many attendees will be mutants - including yours truly. Alas, I have yet to achieve mastery of my own genes, so a mutant I must remain._  
_Since it is so obviously against ettiquite and social standing to be Seen with a mutant, I shall spare you the awkwardness of the situation, and allow you your complete and utter freedom as to what to do with your time on that date._  
Sara had signed it with a, _With love from your daughter._  
Sam read it over and winced.  
"Exactly. She's doing this to me on *purpose*!"  
"Yes," he agreed. "This is the first thing Sara's done to you deliberately."  
"First?" Jaquelline got herself ready for another tirade. "Do you have any *idea* how much she's *done* while your back was turned to me?"  
"Yes. You've told me some innumerable times. And I've told you that when Sara decides to inflict herself on someone - you'll *know* about it. This--" he gestured with the paper, "--is merely an opening shot."  
"This all *her* fault..."  
"Is it? *You* decided to judge her by your family's standards, Jaquelline. Is it any wonder that that's the first thing she'd throw in your face? You put her in a school that was ill-suited for her aptitude--"  
"She didn't complain at the time."  
"Because she loved you and wanted you to be happy," said Sam. "I think the latter half of that prior statement is being forgotten as we speak, Jaquelline. Do you really want the first half to go the same way?"  
"Stop taking her *side*!"  
"I'm on *my* side," argued Sam. "I always have been. All I ever wanted was for the both of you to get along and be *happy*. You're the one who believes love is a once-to-one-person thing. You're the one who can't see beyond the surface of things... how it all *looks* to the outside. You're the one who's seen everything else and every*one* else except *yourself*." He took a deep breath. Calm. He had to maintain calm. Even though he was aching inside. "You used to be so *expansive*. What made you fall in on yourself like this?"  
Jaquelline put her ever-present glass down, contemplating it. It and the transitory alcohol within had been her constant waking companion since Sara had learned how to open her cot and go exploring. "I... my options were - limited."  
That was a true-Jaqui moment. The trembling echo of the real *her*... peeking out of its cancerous shell after far, far too long.  
"Your mother's options *for* you, darling."  
She pushed the glass away. "Yes." She blinked. "What else am I supposed to do?"  
He smiled comfortingly. "Let's start with a simple question, then. What do *you* want?"  
Jaquelline thought about that, stripping off her bracelets and jewels in the process. "I want," she finally announced, "to tell that old hag of a mother of mine to go *stuff* it."  
Sam could have cheered.  
"Fuck society," She said, hurling her glass at the sink, where it and the ice shattered and scattered. "Fuck all of the shallow, pretentious *snobs* who couldn't stand to be near someone who was caught out. I'm going to be *ME*!"  
The real Jaquelline was slightly smaller than her shell, having been constrained for so long. But she would grow.  
Sam had always liked helping her grow.

[1] I'm fairly sure someone had an objection to _Yellow Submarine_ based solely on its imagery, and thus connected it to drugs.

~

Sara was lost. She knew it and acknowledge it, but failed completely to let the situation bother her in the slightest.  
It had begun small, as predicaments often do, with the palming of a love-letter into her hand by one of the volunteer couriers between herself and Mortimer. That list of couriers was now legion, and all Sara had to do was a 'scouts honour' salute with a letter betwixt the two fingers for it to vanish towards her boyfriend at something approaching Warp Nine. If a courier approached from in front, they'd salute her in a similar manner.  
Things were, of course, *far* more restrained around Mr Summers.  
Everyone else turned a blind eye so fast that it generated friction burns.  
Today's missive came to her on the way to the Danger Room. Sara read it in slow-mode, something she usually reserved for works of fiction. And, while her eyes were occupied and her feet kept walking, she somehow tread the path less travelled and wound up in this absolute maze of twists and turns.  
She'd gone quite far before she realized she was rather alone.  
She wasn't lost. At least, not *badly* lost. After all, logic dictated that she was still in the grounds of the Institute's estate. It was her precise location *within* those grounds that was the mystery.  
And since she had a mystery, Sara had something to *do*.  
Primarily, explore the maze she was now in.  
Right now, it was pipes and service tunnels. Of course a place this big had to have feeds for water, air conditioning, drainage, fuel, electricity and sundry other miscellany that made life more pleasant to live in a very, *very* large house.  
Somewhere in the distance, machinery chugged along on its daily tasks, providing a sort of heartbeat that made the giant creature of the Institute itself.  
Sara entertained herself with that mental image. Students tripping through the veins of a gigantic beast that made them learn... shaped them into someone better.

Hank checked his watch. Ten AM. Sara was late.  
"What did she do to herself *this* time?"  
"I opened the door right into her," said Emilia. "Knocked her straight into the wall before I even knew she was there."  
Together, they conspired to prop her up in a bed, where the darkly matted hair on one side was revealed to be from a graze, rather than a cut... and Sara had yet again gained a concussion. And what looked to be a black eye on the other side.  
Sara tracked his finger, and correctly counted his fingers with her good eye. Therefore, she was more than likely to be able to answer questions.  
"What on *Earth* were you doing?"  
"W's lis'nin'," she slurred. "Di'n' wanna in'errupt 'nyone."  
"You scared me out of my *skin*," chided Emilia. "No-one's supposed to be *down* there."  
"You were there."  
"I'm working down there. Those tunnels are for maintenance access only. How did you get *into* them."  
"Uuuhhhh..." said Sara. Her working eye rolled back alarmingly. Fortunately, it refocussed. "Forget."  
Callisto barged into the area. "There the fuck you are. Get distracted again?"  
"Uhm... Yeah. Sorry."  
"Geez," she muttered. "How friggin cold is it in here? Do you *need* extra-arctic temperatures?"  
Hank boggled. "I... hadn't exactly noticed."  
Callisto found the thermostat and fooled with it. "Some patients are sensitive to extreme temperatures, okay? Concussion plus hibernation instinct equals bad news, got it?"  
"The existing environment is *hardly* what I'd refer to as 'extreme', miz... er..."  
"Just call me 'Callisto'. Everyone does." She found a warmed blanket and wrapped it around Sara, making sure she covered most of her head. "As for 'extreme'... let's just say the kid has way less in the way of insulation."  
He rallied and bristled. "I am *hardly* overweight, madam."  
"No, but the rumours have it that you're furrier than the gorillas in _Congo_[1]. Sara doesn't have that advantage."  
"I think my nose has frozen," Sara muttered.  
"It's not that cold," Hank insisted.  
"I *feel* that cold," argued Sara. "Do you have hired penguins, or are the whispers of a fur coat true?"  
Emilia was sizing him up. "You *know* what they say about hairy men..."  
Hank blushed. "I think that's all I can do, today," he said. "You can now all *leave*." _And please don't let the door hit your collective butts on the way out,_ he added in his head.

[1] Description borrowed from a Robin Williams on why he should no longer play 'man-boy' roles.

~

Marie chewed on her pencil, staring again at the same sentence she'd failed to comprehend the last thirty times she'd looked at it. Her mind was wide-awake, it was just - elsewhere.  
Having an awareness of a former enemy in one's place of residence tended to do that to people.  
But then, Toad - no, Mort - wasn't exactly an enemy. On the few chances that she actually spoke to him, she got the feeling that he was - trapped. And she hadn't even tried to talk to him since he arrived here. Even though her eyes singled him out from the scenery every time they shared space.  
He looked back at her once, flinched, and looked away as if meeting her eyes hurt him physically.  
She'd seen him do that a lot, back when he was with Magneto.

They'd handcuffed her, behind her back, and then suspended her hands so that she would have an awful time of even *thinking* about wriggling free. She was cold and scared and so *uncomfortable* she wanted to cry. Except she'd cried all her tears out ages ago, and now she was thirsty on top of everything else.  
And then *he* came. One of Magneto's minions. Toad. She could see why he had that name. Everything about him was as unpleasant as the amphibian he was named after. He smelled like mildew and fusty, forgotten corners... and he looked like he had started growing mould.  
And yet, he bought her a drink. Bottled water. Held it carefully for her so that she could drink with as much dignity as possible. He offered her a sandwich in silence, always twitching his head away. Either checking over his shoulder or he had some kind of nervous tic.  
Rogue refused it, pulling her lips in and shaking her head.  
He gently pulled her hood up for her, and gave her a blanket, covering her legs.  
"Why?" she asked.  
Another tic over his shoulder. "Been there, done that," he whispered. "Need anythin' else?"  
"How 'bout a key?"  
He looked stricken and distraught. "Can't."  
"Making friends, Toad?" said an amused voice.  
He froze. The look on his face was a book with big letters. It said, _Oh, *FUCK*!_  
Magneto had managed to creep up on them. Hardly surprising, since he was floating casually in midair.  
Toad turned. "Just... uh... just..."  
Magneto smirked, amused at the big joke presented to him. "She won't follow you home, Toad... even if you gave her the chance. Honestly. Do you really think she could *like* you?"  
He sagged, head lowering.  
"You *could* try to kiss her. If you think that would change anything."  
_You fucking bastard,_ thought Rogue.  
"No?" Magneto tilted his head. "Then why pay such - exquisite attention to the girl?"  
"...she's just a kid," he muttered.  
"So was I, when They came for me." He lowered himself to the ground and strode over to her, raising her face to catch the light. "Go ahead. Tell her she's pretty and you think you like her."  
His body was still as a stone, save for the rise and fall of his chest. His dark eyes spoke of a lot of hurt. Old wounds. Re-opened and vigorously probed by the old man.  
"Tick tock..." goaded Magneto.  
Toad hung his head and turned completely away from her.  
"Good. Now that you have nothing else to do, I suggest you prepare the boat."  
"Yes," he said.  
"Yes, what?"  
"Yes, master."  
"Never forget it, boy."  
"Yes master."  
Magneto released her, picking up the discarded sandwich. He pried it open. "Gourmet fare," he mused. "He *does* like you. Pity." And just like that, he left her alone. Laughing all the way.

The Toad she met then was different to the Mort she glimpsed in the corridors. Mort was taller, for a start. Held himself prouder. He had less of an aura of trepidation around him.  
Sara had done that, somehow. She'd picked up a toad and turned him into... someone new. And yet, all the work was invisible to just about everyone.  
"*Marie*?"  
Rogue startled and blurted a, "Yes, mister Scooter?"  
The class laughed as Scott blushed under the purple dye.  
He continued on like a trooper. "Are you having trouble with the work? Something you don't understand?"  
"I..." she thought about it, looking again at the same words that she'd read and forgotten innumerable times. "I guess I'm just outta focus, today."  
"Must be going around," he joked. "Take a break and clear your head, okay?"  
She collected her things. "Thanks, sir."  
Rogue found Mort cleaning up the rec room - W and K optional[1] - just like a janitor or some other invisible but necessary worker. Her recent thoughts made her stop and watch him.  
He broke the silence, this time. "Yeh?"  
"I... Thanks. Ah mean... for tryin' to help when... youknow."  
A quirk at one side of his mouth. "Coulda done a lot more," he said.  
"You were scared," she said. "He... kinda... He fucked with your head."  
A bigger smile. "Nice way to put it, luv."  
"Well, he *did*." Guilty about bringing up those phantoms, she dumped her things in a corner of a couch and began helping him pick up. "Ah swear, he musta played head-games with every word that came outta his mouth."  
"I bloody let him," said Mort. "Didn't see nuthin' else for me."  
"You still tried to do something," she said. "Even in the middle of all that, you *tried*. That had to take somethin'."  
He snorted. "Sara reckons there's no reward in tryin'."  
"No, she repeats her *mom*. Ah have no idea what *she* thinks of makin' an effort."  
Mort slammed more trash in his bin. "That *fuckin'* woman..." he shook his head.  
"I know," said Rogue. "The dragons in this world have a lot to answer for."  
This time, a genuine smile. "You're pickin' up the language."  
She shrugged. "It's infectious."

[1] In case you don't get it... rec room - wreck room.

~

She found Mr Summers staring at an old photo in the hallway and seized any opportunity to distract herself from the memories of her most recent humilliation. Sara crept up on him, examining the picture.  
A small crowd of teenagers grinning around a bald man in a wheelchair. One, a redhead, had that windswept look that was only achieved by running back into place after setting the timer.  
"Good gracious Dr McCoy looked gawky back then," she said by way of an icebreaker. "But then... pot, kettle, black."  
Summers barely moved. "Do you *always* sneak up on people?"  
"I schooled myself to move quietly. Sorry," Sara blushed and tried not to cringe. "An ancient, well-drilled habit, I'm afraid. I'll try to step on more squeaky boards for you if you're bothered."  
He turned to face her for the first time, and his face shifted in concern. "What happened to *you*?" he said. "Another argument with an inanimate object?"  
"No, this time it was in the field of better education," she said. "Logan plus Callisto plus Basic Defense Training equals posterior a la mode, alas."  
"What?"  
"In the vernacular... I had my ass handed to me," she blushed deeper. "On a silver platter." Desperately reaching for the metaphorical straw, she picked out the windswept redhead. "I don't believe I've seen her about the place."  
"No. You wouldn't." A dark cloud passed over him.  
"...oh fudge," Sara muttered. "Open mouth, insert foot. That's Jean the younger in that photograph, isn't it?"  
"She changed a lot," he said. "Not that I saw her, then."  
Sara's eyes narrowed, examining the image in obsessive detail. The glasses were in shadow, but they were still darker than the now-usual red. And there, half-concealed behind him, the edge of a wrist loop and the hint of a cane...  
Little details stood out, now. The way he felt for a door before he reached it. The intricate neatness of his room[1], yet the absence of any other obsessive-compulsive habits. And combined with what she'd seen of his power... "You were voluntarily blind," she blurted.  
"There was an alternative?" he said.  
"A rather vile one," she said.  
"Vile isn't my style," he said, staring at the photo again. "I didn't see this until a year later..." A wistful half-smile. "I swear, we must've wrecked the place every *day*, back then."  
"And yet you redeemed yourselves. Again and again, I should think."  
His finger traced over the image of Jean Grey. "Yeah," he whispered.   
He cleared his throat and gave her his authoritarian glare. "Are you   
going to make another point or something?"  
"There's no point in making one if it's going to miss," she said. "We   
have a deal, and we're bound by it. It's just..."  
"Just what?"

[1] Because Sara has a lot of time to waste, she scoped out his   
quarters. When he was elsewhere, natch.

~

"There's absolutely nothing preventing you from slamming Mortimer back into the dark after the week is up. Or... or demanding that the deal continue until I give up on him or--" her voice cracked from worry and pre-emptive grief, "--he gives up on me. Or dangling the prospect of visiting time over either of our heads if we shape up to some unattainable ideal. Or just remov--" her voice gave out for good.  
Had to remember not to box it up. The Professor said her boxes were unhealthy and the seizures were a *light* symptom of what they could do to her if she continued the bad habit of boxing things away.  
And going into the new regime in front of the man who held her fate in his whim would be... inappropriate. He may surmise that she was playing for sympathy. Putting on an act to get what she wanted sooner.  
Sara put her hands over her face and wished she could vanish entirely, not just make her skin blend to the point where she was very, very hard to spot. She could feel it happening. That strange, crawling sensation that meant her scales were matching themselves to their environment.  
Summers laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. C'mon..." He guided her into the mini-kitchen. The traditional lair of the determined sulker and/or private-personal business into which no-one was allowed to pry. "You look like you need a tub of ice-cream."  
Sara unhid in order to find a seat, then resumed hiding her tears and attempting to think calming thoughts so said tears would go away.  
Summers delivered a hoarfrost-obscured cylinder and a spoon to her, and kept a similar set for himself. "I figure no-one's about to object if we take the stuff that's from the back, so... it's pot luck."  
Sara chipped ice away from the lid in order to prise it off. "Sort of a combination archaeological dig and freezer clean-out. Practical and efficient. Your key words, it seems."  
Summers cracked into his with slightly more violence, ripping the lid almost in two with his struggle to gain access. "Still trying to work out the Summers Equation?" He seemed less irritated about it, now. Or perhaps he needed to laugh.  
"You have to admit that you are trickier than cold fusion," she said. "There are... pieces. Fragments of formulae that work... and yet have no connection." Sara yelped as her lid rocketted away from its prior home and sailed clear across the tiny alcove and neatly into the bin. "I'll never do that again in a million years," she sighed.  
"On the plus side, someone *was* watching," said Summers. He extracted a spoon's worth and put it in his mouth. Judging by the way his face twisted, it wasn't a good idea. "Gyeaurgh... What flavour *is* this?" He scraped frost away from the lid. "Rats. Japanese."  
Sara plucked it from his fingers. "Prawn Misu[1]," she gave it back and tried a bite of hers. Ick. Ick ick ick ick ick and yeurk.  
"Can't be worse than Prawn Misu," he said.  
"It is. *Bubblegum*[2]."  
"Euw..." He took another bite from his tub. "Suddenly, I'm feeling luckier."  
"Having experienced Prawn Misu ice-cream, I'm inclined to agree." Some masochistic instinct made her match him spoonful for spoonful. "I think this particular attempt at mood-busting can be classified as a resounding failure."  
"Meh... I dunno. It *could* be salvaged."  
"Oh? You have an idea?"  
"Truth or dare with a twist," he said. "Dare is take a bite. Refuse to answer and take a bite. Get caught in a lie and take *two* bites."  
"And the goal is to make the other eat the most ice cream?"  
"Exactly."  
"You're on."  
Famous last words.

[1] And yes, Japan does have ice cream flavours like this.  
[2] It might be just me, but I happen to think that people who *want* to eat things flavoured to taste like prechewed latex are certifiably insane. Bleh. :P

~

December 8.

Mort's eyes snapped open in fear. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Something life-threateningly important. He checked out his quarters rapidly. Nothing gone. Nothing messed with.  
But then, he had buggerall in the way of possessions, anyway. Not important ones like--  
A flurry of movement to the bottom left drawer inside his wardrobe. He felt into the back. The box was still there. And a paranoid check ensured that its contents were both intact and undisturbed. He put it back, breathing a sigh of relief.  
The sun's first light turned the snow outside his window a beautiful gold, setting some crystals in it to sparkling like diamonds. People everywhere *missed* this, every morning... but not--  
*SARA*!  
That's what was missing.  
She wasn't singing.  
Mort scurried up the nearest wall and put his ear to the ceiling. Hoping. Praying. *Wishing* that he could hear her move or catch a tentative strain of her song.  
He understood at last the unique horror in Poe's line, "silence there, and nothing more."  
Ignoring the hot moisture streaming down his cheeks, he fled his room and charged up the stairs towards her. Sara never missed a dawn. Even in the camp she rose to contemplate the early colours with a hunger of need that she couldn't answer without breaking some other part of her essential self.  
There had to be something desperately wrong for there to be silence in her room.  
He never remembered opening her door. Just standing on the threshold and staring at the space that was her shell.  
He'd helped her construct this cocoon. This place of ultimate safety. It was as much Sara as the girl herself. It was full to the brim with her... and yet it was empty.  
A soulless husk.  
Sara wasn't here.  
He knew it. He could feel it in the air. Smell it in the absence of lilac. Sense that somehow, despite the fact that he could only see a small portion of the room, Sara was not here.  
Mort checked anyway.  
Bed neatly made. Computer in standby mode. All her books - and there were a plethora of them - neatly in their place. Her curtains were drawn.  
That was the scariest.  
Sara's place was in the light. No wonder she hadn't come back to this dark place.  
Mort opened the curtains and double-checked the balcony door's latch.  
Closed. Firmly so. Impossible to shut and lock from the outside unless one could phase... and Kitty was on *their* side.  
He paced in a circle, looking for a clue. Whimpering as his breathing rate increased. Desperately seeking some kind of hint. Some message. *Something*...  
Where had she *GONE*?

~

Kurt found him running between the common access rooms in a state of obvious disarray. Mort was only wearing his pyjama pants and still had bed-head. Neither that, nor the anguished noises escaping his throat made any impact on him. He was clearly stricken by the absence of something.  
No. Some *one*.  
He hadn't heard.  
Kurt fielded him on the next pass. "Mort. *Mort*. Calm down, bitte... I know where Sara is."  
Quicker than lightning, Mort seized his collar. "*Where*?"  
Now was not the time for brute truth. "Calm down. *Please*. You'd better sit."  
Fear and dread overwhelmed him. "...no... please tell me she isn't--"  
"Sara's alive, freund. Just try to calm down. I'll tell you everything."  
He fell into a froglike crouch on the very edge of a seat, coiled and ready to leap towards Sara, whatever the cost. The effort of sitting so still whistled rapidly between his teeth. "What. Happened?"  
Kurt found a spare blanket on a couch and draped it over his naked shoulders. "A series of accidents and mistakes," he began.

Bobby and Rogue were sort-of making out while Avery was spacing out. The sort of typical night-time arrangement in which everyone conveniently ignored everyone else as long as they didn't make too much noise.  
None present noticed Sara staggering in, nauseated colours washing over her exposed skin. Avery heard her mumble, "Word of warning. Never get in an ice-cream duel with Scott Summers," but quickly forgot as he blinked onto channel 3.  
Unheeded, Sara made a beeline for the fireplace and fumbled to light it, the hissing sussuration of her shivering easily lost under the noise of flipping cable.  
After that point, reconstructing events was pieced together from a veritable bouquet of 'should have's.  
Rogue should have noticed the increase in amber-gold light. Both she and Bobby should have heard the soft 'whoomph' as Sara's coat, soaked as it was with ancient paints and solvents, ungently ignited. Avery should have listened better and remembered in time what happened when Sara's core temperature was lowered.  
All of them should have run for an extinguisher, rather than allow Bobby to instinctively use his powers to put out the blaze.  
It was all over in ninety seconds.  
The securicam footage showed what *happened*, but not what the players on the screen were thinking and feeling at the time.  
Ten seconds were lost in averting disaster when Sara's sleeve, too close to the flames, lit... and Sara failed to notice. A further twenty were lost to her contemplating the flame and realising her arm was getting hot. It took her five to get to Bobby and Rogue, fifteen to gain enough of their attention to ask, "Where are the fire extinguishers, please?" which cost a further five seconds, including comprehension. Rogue wasted a second screaming, drawing Avery's attention as well as Bobby's to the spectacle of a fellow student on fire patiently waiting for an answer to her question. At ten seconds left, Bobby iced Sara over, extinguishing the flame.  
They had just enough time to feel good about that before Sara fell to the floor, apparently dead.  
Their panic roused the kids in the neighbouring rooms to gawk and spread the panic until Hank was summoned. Hysteria reigned supreme until he announced that Sara wasn't dead, just in a sort of suspended animation akin to hibernation. A state he would keep her in until he was certain that any new wounds were sufficiently dealt with.

"It was a very thick coat," Kurt said. "In a way, it saved her from more severe injuries... but it allowed for more of her to get - scorched."  
"Is she all right?" Mort repeated.  
"She's in shock," he said. "Hank's been having trouble keeping her warm, and keeping her out of pain without knocking her for a loop. Apparently, her skin is very sensitive and the bur--"  
"*IS* she *ALRIGHT*?"  
Kurt looked down at his feet, finding no easy answers there. "She's in a lot of pain. I'm sorry."  
"Where?" he made to get up.  
Kurt gently encouraged him back down. "Not yet. There's something else you have to know."  
"But what else could-- ofuck... she had another soddin' seizure, didn't she?"  
He couldn't meet Mort's eyes. "Not just one."  
A tear-ridden gulp of air. "Fucking bastard sod of a cunt... *No*..."  
Kurt closed his eyes. Steeled himself. Knowing the man had a right to know, yet dreading the inevitable reaction. "We've had to strap her down. Under medication, she lacks the focus she needs to... dissipate them. We can't risk her injuring herself any more... not after she fell out of the bed, the first time."  
"No. No. No no no nonononononononoooooooooo..." Mort's voice trailed off in a whine. He'd curled up on himself, hands holding tight to fists of hair, rocking in place and choking down sobs.  
Kurt comforted him, sitting on the arm of the chair and holding the poor man steady amidst a torrent of emotion. "It's going to be all right," he whispered. "We're looking after her. She's going to be okay. I promise." Were their positions reversed, were it *his* best-beloved in the infirmary and Mort telling him what had happened... what would he need to hear the most? "I'm deeply sorry I had to tell you... but you had a right to the truth. You had the right to be prepared for what you'd see."  
Mort just sniffed and sighed. Still shaking from the impact.  
"Do you want to go see her?" Kurt offered.  
"Mate... I'd belly-crawl over broken glass an' razor wire if I knew it'd get 'er better."

~

Scott Summers did what he always did when he blamed himself for another mutant's injury. He lingered, forcing himself to watch over them and, when he was capable, inveigle himself into their care and recuperation.  
Sara looked a lot younger when she was asleep.  
They'd had to improvise with her restraints, owing to the fact that there was no way the traditional arrangements would have worked. Her injuries covered her left arm and a swath of skin along her back. Hardly up to the standard of a typical second-degree burn in a human, Sara's injuries were much worse for her because her epidermis was alive.  
He'd made himself listen to Hank's lecture on her skin.  
How each 'scale' was actually a cluster of nerves, pigment cells, and muscles intricately woven together into a tiny, neat package.  
None of them were larger than a freckle.  
Sara herself had told Hank that her skin was amazingly informative. Every touch was like gathering a novel's worth of information on the head of a pin.  
Small wonder, then, that her brain was wired to process large amounts of data at phenominal speed. Otherwise, she'd match Avery in terms of not keeping up with events.  
And also small wonder that she was currently asleep under the influence of pain medication. Even first-degree burns - the majority of her most recent injuries - would be agony for her.  
Hank's newest formula, a mixture of acetominophen and antihistamine, had her numbed to the pain without making her loopy. And since she was largely unconscious, that meant a reduced likelyhood of further seizures.  
Unfortunately, when she was *awake*... she was in the high risk zone. They needed her awake so she could eat, and to answer the obvious medical questions. The obvious compromise, to keep her *just* medicated enough to relieve discomfort, yet have her awake enough to be aware, was a very thin line to balance on.  
Sara should be coming back 'up' from her drug-induced stupor any minute, now. Scott nuked a small serving of nutritious broth for her while Hank re-dosed her injured skin with silverzine.  
"...nnnngh..."  
Just in time. "Can't let you out of the restraints," he reminded her. "If you have a seizure without them, you could aggravate your injuries."  
Sara blinked, still halfway 'under'. "Really did it t' m'self th's time," she mumbled. "What'll I do f'r an encore?"  
The exchange had been exactly the same almost every time she awoke. Except the first few, when he established the correct pattern.  
"I hope you won't *need* to have an encore," he said, doling out a spoonful of broth for her. "We'd actually like you to go through twenty-four hours *without* coming in here, you know."  
A wise-ass smile. "I'm not my best when I'm worried about those I love," she murmured, accepting more soup. "And lately, I'm worse when I get cold."  
"I know," he said. "I should have kept an eye on you."  
Sara winced. "I seem to recall... mutual bouts of nausea..."  
Scott froze, staring at the all-too-familliar face at the infirmary door. "What's *he* doing here?"  
"Wouldn't you?" said Kurt. "In the same situation?"  
If, by some miracle, Jean turned up in some hospital... he'd move heaven and earth to get to her. But this wasn't about him and Jean.  
"We had an arrangement," he put the soup down as he stood. "It hasn't even been four days."  
The Toad looked dishevelled. Gone was the cocky and arrogant warrior. "Please," he said. "I'll do anything you say. Just ten minutes. Ten little minutes. Just a little time with 'er. Please. She needs me. I... I can 'elp. Five minutes? Five minutes... I'll fix all th' plumbin'. I'll supercharge yer cars. I'll fix anythin' you like. Anythin'. Just a coupla minutes. I can help... Just let me help? You want a pound o' flesh? Name the fuckin' cut."  
Sara whimpered and hissed.  
Toad bit his lip and danced in agitation, torn between the want to get close to her, and the arrangement they had. He could clearly see the irritated flesh, each spot of a scale blinking in pain. "I can help her. Please. Just let me help her..."  
A tiny noise.  
"For God's fucking *sake*... she's in *pain*..."  
Maybe it was guilt over ultimately causing her current condition. Maybe it was some frisson of sympathy worming its way through a chink in the armour that was his perception of the man. Maybe it was the near-ceaseless and desperate babble.  
Whatever it was, Scott stepped aside. "Help her, then."  
Toad moved so fast there was red-shift. "I'm 'ere, luv. Shhh..." a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I'm gonna have t' touch yer burns, but it's gonna be all right. Just take it easy..." He focussed intensely on his hands, which developed a sheen. Then, gentle as a butterfly, brushed his shiny skin against her burned and scorched flesh.  
Sara hissed, then breathed out a great sigh of relief.   
"...oooooooohhhh... *Bless*..."  
"You watch out fo' tinglin'," he said. "Means it's wearin' off. An' if you start t' get swellin', it means it ain't any good for you anyway."  
"...mmmmmmmmh," said Sara.  
Toad moved around to her back, tracing the path the fire had made on her skin. "Le'me know if I missed any spots, eh?"  
"Mmmh..."  
"Not that I'm complainin', luv... but you usually talk and *I* make agreeable noises."  
Scott kept his eyes on him as he returned to the soup. Sara was drowsy and relaxed, but awake. "You need to eat," he told her.  
"...okay." She obediently held her mouth open for a spoonful.  
"What on *Earth* is that substance?" Hank wondered.  
"Technic'ly? Guess it's some kinda nerve suppressant. I leak it all over th' place when I hurt. Numbs th' pain. I can control it a bit... not a lot, but enough."  
"I didn't notice any when I was suturing your thumb," he said.  
"'Course you bloody didn't. You were sewin' me up. Can't have a soddin' doc sewin' you up with numb fuckin' 'ands. Just di'n't let meself feel the pain."  
"And this morning?"  
"Remembered it. In exquisite ball-breakin' detail."  
He had no reason to lie. There was no... motive behind those words.  
Perhaps... just perhaps... Toad was telling the truth. Not only about his abilities, but also about his emotions.  
And yet it was still *wrong* to allow a grown man within touching distance of an underaged girl. Not when his intentions were clearly immoral.  
But he kept *restraining* himself - every instant, in fact - from taking action based on that intent.  
For the first time since his initial dismissal of the man, Scott began pondering the Toynbee equation.

~

Mort was lingering. He knew it, and he was certain that everyone else did, too. Hank gave him an excuse with the analysis of his skin secretions, and the collecting of a sizable sample to see if they could reproduce it for the good of Science... and a completely unnecessary detour through an indicator of exactly how much time Hank had on his hands.  
The good doctor had noticed, when Sara was bought in late last night, that her prior injuries from her encounter with glass had healed somewhat faster than he would have expected. This, in turn, lead to him setting up a time-lapse camera to monitor her progress through the night.  
There was already five minutes of footage.  
Scooter-boy was in one place long enough to be a high-speed, yet recognizable blur by Sara's side.  
He'd never left her alone for a minute.  
As for the burns... sped up, he could see the area of her injury reduce like melting ice. There was still too much, in his opinion, but if he'd seen her when the wounds were *new*... Mort would have gone to fucking pieces.  
The last thing they'd have needed at that time - what with the seizures and all - was a hysterical boyfriend in the room.

~

Sara's eyes kept wanting to shut, even though her mind was awake. This always seemed to happen when medication was involved. Bits of her kept passing out[1], leaving the others to cope on their own.  
"Just one more spoonful," coaxed Mr Summers.  
"At least I'm not asleep," she said. It was when she correctly intercepted the broth that she began to wonder how the heck she did it. Usually, if she attempted that sort of thing, there'd be a mess of spilled soup all over the place. "...how on Earth did I just do that?" she wondered aloud.  
"Maybe you're used to it," offered Mr Summers.  
"Maybe." Sara eased into meditative mode, allowing her senses to expand. Mr Summers shifted on his chair, making himself comfortable. Hank and Mort were discussing this or that in the rambling fashion caused by one participant desperate to hang around.  
_Naughty Mortimer, dancing on the edge of the deal. Don't slip too close to the edge, now._ Oddly enough, she felt warmer for his presence in the room, even though the temperature had been obsessively adjusted with her peculiar adaptations in mind. Maybe it wasn't that odd at all, given her feelings for the man.  
Did she really love him? Or was it something like Nightingale Syndrome... where the carer and caree fell in love through extended contact? Was that even a false love? Relationships formed through such familiarity could last a literal lifetime. Was she just *used* to him? Could she seriously expect anything better?  
But then... there was something deeply endearing about him. Underneath the tough, brash talk and the obvious experience at dealing with a cruel world, there was a soft and tender underside that wanted to care and be cared for in return. Craved it, almost. Like something held apart from him until the want of it nearly became an addiction.  
Sara smiled at the memory of catching Mort surrupticiously sniffing some garment she'd recently worn. That darling look of covert ecstasy as he just stood there and *inhaled*, the dreamy expression he got as he savoured that one breath... and the slightly guilty way he put the garment back as he had found it.  
Perhaps he, too, thought he didn't deserve love.  
That thought made her crave for time to move faster, just so she could hold him close and protect him from thoughts like that and never, *never* let go.  
Just having one of them messed up like that was bad enough.  
How could they heal each other if they both suffered the same wounds?  
"Deep thoughts?" said Mr Summers.  
"Deep and troubling," she said. "Love defies equations... and that unknown factor is therefore alarmingly hard to quantify. You know it, at least. Were there ever times you were - afraid? Any times you doubted what you felt was real?"  
She could sense-feel Mr Summers beside her, and somehow knew he was looking at Mort as he tried to stay but knew he should go. She could almost *sense* the internal debate.  
"In the very beginning... yes," he said. "But it gets to the point where you just can't picture your life without them and then... it's just the way it is."  
Sara sighed. "And we haven't even had a first date," she mused. "Just tumbling together through one necessity after another... would we even last in a normal relationship?"  
Mr Summers shrugged - how could she know? Yet she did. "One way to find out, I guess."  
"Tomorrow?" she pleaded.  
"We had a deal. He proves he can be good for a week, and *then* you guys get to try normalicy for a while." His next words fell perilously short of a joke. "Assuming you don't put yourself in a coma before then. Or worse."  
Even he cared. In his militaristic way. Everyone cared so much. So *openly*. And without the undercurrent of pretense that meant incoming torture of one form or another at a later date. "I'll try to be g--" oh fudge. Another box was peeling apart. All her focus intensified inwards. Steady the breathing. Achieve centre. Be always aware that that coming loose is not the emotion of *now*. Remember the mantra. "Ashair elam   
ithenne onu... ashair elam ithenne onu..." And above all else... let that inside that wants to be loose slide out with the breath. Release into the air... and breathe in freedom.

[1] Tip o' the hat to the late Douglas Adams ^_^

~

Hank ceased talking the instant he realised he'd lost his audience. It was hard to miss, given that Mort's anguished expression hardly matched a mini-lecture on the fascinating co-ordination of physical adaptions.  
He was fixated on someone else. On four whispered and repeating words.  
"...ashair elam ithenne onu..."  
It had taken Charles quite a while to find the mantra that had no meaning for her. Sara's knack for languages - not to mention her thirst for them - made it nigh on impossible to find four words that perplexed her. So he'd made them up.  
Focussing on the words, concentrating on finding meaning where there was none, distracted Sara enough while her 'boxed' emotions and physical reactions eased slowly out of her semi-conscious mind at a safer rate.  
Watching her doing this was disturbing, since the violent swings of her fits trickled out in clearly-interpretable movements. Tics co-ordinated - when she was free to move - into a ballet that spoke of abuse. Restrained as she was, it was just a case of watching the muscles twitch, her face move in horrid extremes of expression, and her emotive skin ripple and wash over with colours that betrayed feelings long past.  
In his more academic moments, he seriously considered writing a paper about her particular method of emotive and reactive repression, and the unnerving complications that arose as a result. The work would have to include the collaboration of the Professor and most likely Sara as well. The former for his far more impressive psychology degrees and the latter for actually being there and experiencing it.  
But then, did Sara really need people reading about her pain and analyzing it for generations?  
A movement caught his eye and bought his attention back to Mort, hovering on the edge of an invisible barrier and trying not to distract anyone.  
Moisture seeped into patches on his shirt.  
_Interesting sympathetic reaction,_ he mused. Then his doctor's training took over. "Perhaps it would be better if you sought some other occupation for the meantime," he said, guiding the man towards the door. "Sara's in the best of care. Rest assured she'll be up and about in no time."  
One last, lingering look. "When she goes out? Make sure she has a fuckin' bodyguard?"  
"Indubitably, dear fellow. We dare not risk any other action, considering the most recent developments."

~

"...onu..." A shuddering sigh. "One would think," said Sara, "that I had *dealt* with most of these..."  
"Relieving the pressure's slower than an out-and-out breakdown," said Scott.  
"Not to mention more annoying," griped Sara. "There's so *many*... it could take forever to bust them all out. Especially like this. A seizure's over in a few minutes--"  
"And it could injure you. Not to mention the fact that a severe enough seizure could trigger a complete emotional breakdown... which has its own inherent risks." He patted her uninjured hand. "Think of it like... eating fibre. You gotta do it, but the damn stuff just plain sucks."  
She giggled, showing greener colours. Except where the Toad - *Toynbee* - had touched his slime to her skin. There, it remained a sickly yellow, spotted with violent reds. At least... according to Hank. Every colour *he* saw was through a ruby filter.  
Hank checked the readouts. "The good news is that there's a minimal risk of aftershock seizures."  
"And the bad news?"  
"That means we have to move you so your skin doesn't crack - while you're conscious."  
Sara's eyes opened for that, trepidation clear in their dark depths. "I take it I made disturbing noises?"  
"More than a few," said Scott. "It's almost heartbreaking."  
She stared right into him. "*You* don't have to be here and endure it..."  
"It's my fault you got hurt. I deserve it."  
"Is that the result of a court of inquiry?" she said as Hank unbuckled her.  
"Do you defend anyone who crosses your path?"  
"Just those without a defender," she smirked. Then hissed slightly as she moved by herself for the first time in almost eight hours.

~

It was later. Pain had happened, and he'd had to watch it happen to the sufferer for the sake of their long-term wellbeing. That didn't make it any easier to face.  
She was sleeping, now. Genuine sleep, which apparently couldn't be matched by anesthesia. And that gave him at least three hours to get clean and changed.  
Scott opened his door and sighed.  
His room had been turned upside-down. Literally.  
He had to say this for the kids. They scored high on enginuity.  
At least this time they'd left his clothes and his hygene products alone. They just made getting to some of them... difficult.  
_Professor,_ he 'called' as he adjusted the last details of his fresh clothes. _We're going to have to have a school-wide meeting._  
_So I 'see',_ jibed the telepath.  
_Actually, this lot is second on the agenda. First is an official inquiry into last night's accident... and arranging a schedule of bodyguards._ Sara had been right on that count. He was too eager to judge and condemn himself with little to no input from anyone else. And since the students had declared him target of the week *anyway*... why not let them have a target that truly deserved it?

Mort revelled in the hot water and soap substitute. To think, once upon a time, he'd have just festered in his beslimed clothing until someone made him bleed on it, or his 'master' Magneto ordered him to do something about his odour. The old fart didn't care about Mort's sensitivity to soap, nor his ability - or handicap - of being able to detect every impurity in the water just by soaking in it... and subsequently being ill.  
Sara had cared enough to find an ultra-non-allergenic soap substitute for him, and apologised about the water, since there was little she could actually do about that.  
But Xavier's... was prepared. It was highly plausible for a mutant to be sensitive to pollutants, so he laid in space-age plumbing that kept the water as pure as possible.  
Mort, who hadn't been bothered as a matter of self-defense, could almost adore every instant of this luxury. Being clean without being ill as a result? Paradise.  
Were it not for Sara's intervention, he would have been supremely thankful for just that. She somehow helped him recognise as a right what had previously been treasured as a luxury, and brooked no going back.  
She was pleased whenever he took pride in himself, boosting him up to achieve the next goal.  
It was after he dressed - clean clothing every day, another once-upon-a-time luxury - that Xavier's voice entered his head. School-wide meeting, *there*, to discuss what must be done and who was to blame for last night's accident.  
Mort resolved to sit on his hands and keep his mouth shut. He knew what he *felt* about the entire ordeal... it's just that his brand of vengeance wouldn't sit well with Sara.  
She'd give that sodding one-eyed git a chance just because he didn't have one.  
And that's why Mort loved her.

~

Mort found himself an unobtrusive corner up at the back of the lecture hall to lurk in, and almost instantly found himself surrounded by friends. Rogue. Kurt. Even Ororo and Rogue's tag-along boyfriend, Bobby.  
"You think Scooter's going to surrender?"  
"Nah. Seen what this is about," said Mort. "God knows why he decided to open the floor on blamin' 'imself, though."  
"Did Sara do something *else* to herself?" wondered Ororo. "Already?"  
"Don't be bloody daft," said Mort. There may have been forgiveness for the attempted murder on both sides, but verbally assaulting Sara when she wasn't around to defend herself was something of a sore point for him. Then, because Sara demanded brutal honesty about herself, he added, "She hasn't had the time."  
For anyone else, it would have been funny, but those seated closest to him knew the truth.  
Sara was accident prone through having her mind occupied by personal business.  
Translated - it was *Mort's* fault.  
For hanging around when he should have left. For wanting to be as close as he could to her. For wanting to be closer. For *worrying* her to the point of distraction.  
If he was gone, completely, then he would have been out of sight and out of mind for her. She could forget him... get on with the life she truly deserved.  
Who was he fooling? Sara couldn't forget. She'd find him or kill herself through some form of accident and he'd never have the chance to say goodbye.  
He hoped to deaf heaven that he'd saved her by demanding she was constantly watched over.  
The mere thought of not being there to help her in her hours of need - *hurt*.  
Scooter-boy stepped up in front of the gathered students - those who didn't have somewhere to go for the holidays. "Last night," he began, "there was an accident..."  
Mort listened again to the essential details, made himself watch the footage they had of Sara setting herself on fire.  
Obvious lack of 'higher functions' through lowered core temperature. In essence, Sara wasn't at home to recognise the danger she was in.  
He was worse, true, but at least he was familliar with the danger signs, and could extract himself from trouble. Mostly. The instinct to find a 'safe' person needed some fine-tuning, but he was *almost* there.  
He could teach her... *if*...  
_Three an a half days, Morty. We just gotta wait three and a half days. Then we'll see her again._ He sighed. Thinking of himself as plural was a danger sign of stress. He did things to his own body out of stress that were a bitch to heal. Bleeding ulcers were the lightest symptom. As were distraction accidents, like his thumb.  
Once, locked in the little dark room for too long, he'd ground his teeth to bleeding stumps and broken every bone in his arms from the elbow down. He'd spent two weeks after that calling the old fart 'master daddy' and variations thereof out of the sheer gratitude of basic medical care until he regenerated.  
Growing new teeth was worse than a bitch.  
Scooter cleared his throat. "I am responsible for her initial condition. In an effort to... cheer up a bad mood--"  
_My fault. She was depressed 'cause she misses me._  
"--I instigated an ice-cream duel. I did notice her shivering and went to grab her coat from the art room. And I turned the heat in there back down to 'standby'. If I'd left the thermostat alone, Sara could have thawed in safety. If gone for another coat..."  
Rogue held up her hand. "Uhm. If you'd taken too long lookin' fo' a coat, Sara'd wandered off on you anyway."  
Point. He and Callisto shared minder-stories from back in the camp. Callisto had the more lurid ones, owing to her necessarily having to round the *both* of them into the relative warmth of indoors when they weren't at all 'home'.  
Mort knew too well Sara's almost insanely suicidal attitudes in the cold, lurching towards the 'shinies' on the razor wire, for instance. He'd have to bug the living piss out of Scooter just to teach her essential cold-survival. Love her dearly though he did, he couldn't keep her safe forever. There would be times when they'd have to be apart.  
Hopefully by choice.

~

One of the kids held up his hand. Simon. "Sir? I could have stayed in the art room instead of going off to -uh..." a telling hesitation, "do stuff."  
Scooter gave him the fish-eye. A remarkable feat for someone with their eyes obscured. "We'll discuss *that* part, later," he advised.  
Bobby raised his hand. "I could have run for the extinguisher..."  
A group of other hands raised.  
"I could've gone to the rec. room and been there and changed things."  
"I could've remembered."  
"I could've--"  
Mort lost the plot as many other eager volunteers to take the blame overspoke each other.  
"I could've been with her," Mort whispered under the babble. At the time, he'd been taking baskets of dirty clothes from washer to dryer, completely unaware of what had been going on above.  
If only...  
_Don't blame yourself,_ said Xavier's voice in his mind. _Even I couldn't detect her peril._  
_Stay outta my head, thanks,_ he mentally growled. It had disturbed him how bloody easily Xavier got in his head. And took control. _I'll call when you're wanted._  
_Very well._ And then he was gone. Just like that.  
The babble fell to an eerie silence, and for a minute, Mort wondered if Xavier had turned them all 'off'. At least, until he found the focus of the room's attention.  
Sara.  
She'd borrowed a top that barely qualified for the name. 'Front' would be more apt, since it consisted of a single piece of fabric anchored at the neck and the back with spaghetti ties[1]. Hank had obviously forbade her to walk by herself, and pushed her into the room via a wheelchair. It had a drip-stand on it.  
"You shouldn't be here," said Scooter.  
"The Professor did call *everyone*," said Sara. "And what better witness than the survivor?"  
"I'm sorry I woke you," murmured Xavier.  
"I woke myself," she soothed. "Just in time for the APB[2]." She shifted, leaning on her uninjured arm. "If there's anyone to blame... it's me."  
The entire room howled objections to that - though the adults were a little more restrained than the kids.  
Scooter and Xavier both pleaded fruitlessly for quiet and order. All Sara had to do was hold up a finger. Very shakily as it happened, since that finger belonged to her injured arm.  
Mort could see the spots of pain firing. Little blips of red amidst the sickly yellow. There was less of it, true. By the afternoon, she'd be free of caution. But that didn't stop him wanting to run to her and do everything he could to ease her discomfort.  
"I knew it was happening," she said. "I could have 'called' for someone to... help, despite my considerations for Mr Summers' nausea. But I didn't. I went *looking*, when all I had to do was *think*... and then capacity for thought fled. I was stupid. In more ways than one. This is *my* fault. Don't blame anyone else?"

[1] What the hell are these called? I refer to them as 'hankie-tops', but I know that's not the name for them.  
[2] All Points Bulletin - basically, everyone gets notified.

~

Rogue tapped Mort on the arm. "Why is she defendin' him? Ain't he the guy that's keepin' you apart?"  
Mort had the goofiest look on his face. "That's Sara," he said. "Defending the defenceless..."  
She had to smile, knowing what it was like to be in love. But this was an adult in love with someone her own age... more or less. "How's it... gonna work with you?"  
"Day at a time?" Mort shrugged. "Any day, she can wake up to 'erself an' realise... there's lots of better fish in the sea. I'll take whatever I can get."  
_Ouch,_ thought Rogue. He really *had* given up on self-worth. It was hard to hate him, having witnessed what she had. Harder to comfort him, given the age gap between himself and the girl he loved. She laid her gloved hand on his arm, giving him a companionable squeeze. "She saved your life," she said. "That's gotta be worth somethin'."  
"Everythin'," whispered Mort.

Scott stared down at the girl he was usually used to looking up at. "Are you *serious*? I got you exactly the wrong coat... I let you go on your own..."  
"Mr Summers, are you suggesting a Coulda-Woulda-Shoulda duel? I know what my body does. If there's any better judge to care for me... they're welcome to step forward." Her eyes flickered, however briefly, up to the corner where Toynbee was.  
Toynbee flinched in his seat, then forced himself to stay still.  
"It's still my concern to see to the safety and wellbeing of the students here," he said. "The fact that you've been in so many accidents in so many days... points to a dangerous lack, somewhere."  
Sara put up her 'well' hand, smirk wide on her face. "Speaking," she chirped. It wasn't funny. "Everyone else is accident-free. Mishap-free. Incident-free. Ergo, the flaw must lie with me. Straight-up logic."  
"So... logically speaking, what can be done to prevent further - trouble?"  
"A bodyguard-keeper," said Sara. "Or a set of them. I know one person who would volunteer on a permanent basis--" again, a flicker to Toynbee, "--but we're all honour-bound to stay away from that option."  
They drew up a schedule, in the end, of students and staff who were willing to keep Sara 'company' during her many waking hours. And it would start the instant she left the infirmary.  
As Hank began to wheel her out, he said, "Mr Toynbee, I request and require your assistance with Miss Adrien's wounds. At your earliest convenience, of course."  
Toynbee all but leaped to his side.

~

Sara leaned forward instinctively, trying to get away from the pain despite the fact that she *knew* it was part of her. Her right arm cupped her borrowed top to what could charitably be called her bosom, and even then, the straps were like ribbons of fire.  
"Strings," she said urgently. "Inna back, please. Please... undothestrings..."  
A kind hand - Mort's, if she could judge by the relative coolness - pulled gently on the ties and moved them away from the searing agony that was her back. A cool, careful touch spread blessed numbness across he area.  
"Move out from the middle, dear," she advised as soon as she could breathe easier. "I know what this has to cost you."  
"Just a memory, luv," he soothed. "Makin' itself useful for the first time in forever." His touch lingered on the more painful bits, though she could feel little else but the pressure of his hand. He worked on her arm, next, carefully guiding it about so he could - well - apply himself.  
There was no pain in his eyes, just - concern.  
Sara watched idly as the illusion of popping red bubbles of pain on her skin settled down into little red freckles amidst a sea of vomitous yellow-green. "You're a minor miracle, Mr Toynbee."  
He smirked at that, and bowed and kissed her hand. "And you, Miss Adrien, need to look after yer fool bloody self, awrigh'?"  
She could feel the idiot grin overtaking her, even as they wheeled her into the warmed infirmary. "My dear Mr Toynbee, for your sake, I think I should eschew ice-cream forever."  
"Wouldn't make you do that. Just until next week, eh?"  
Her skin pulled at her as she moved, but she performed the necessary stretches anyway. "A small thing bothers me, though... Did you or did you not leave an ample supply of your secretions with Dr McCoy?"  
"I thought I did..." said Mort.  
Hank turned back to them from his computers. "Testing has proven that the beneficial effects of Mr Toynbee's -er- epidermal discharge lose efficaciousness on the shelf... and all attempts at replication have been - less than encouraging."  
"I thought this bugger spoke English, luv," said Mort.  
"Hank said your miracle goo loses potency over time," she translated. "And what a champion liar he is, too."  
Hank grinned. "Took me ages to find the right circumstances to spoil the stuff."  
"Cheers for the Scooter conspiracy," laughed Mort.

~

Apart from the periodic visits from Mortimer, it was a dullish day. Visitors drifted in and out to check up on how she was doing, ask the obvious question - "Does it hurt?" - occupy her mind and time for a while and then drift out again.  
Sara never thought she had so many friends.  
_A month ago, a realisation like that would have had me in a twitching heap..._ Sara pondered. _Huzzah for the Professor's mantra, it seems._  
"Deep thoughts?" prompted Kitty.  
"Self-realisation," said Sara. "I really messed myself up over the last decade."  
"Don't blame yourself. You had help."  
"From every quarter, yes." Mortimer's miracle goo actually sped her recovery to the point where one could watch it real-time. It tended to distract her from the chess game if she let it. Sara moved a knight. "Now that I have genuine help, I have trouble accepting that it exists."  
"Trained into bad thought," said Kitty. "Y'know... we *could* prank you if you think it'd help. Shaving foam in the phone... spring-snakes... a 'compliment me' sign on your back..."  
"Once a week, perhaps," said Sara, laughing. "I wouldn't want to start thinking people had something *against* me." She observed a 'wave' of scales turn from sickly yellow pain colours to pale green-blue, and then fade into her proper aqua. "Beware, though, I may retalliate... creatively."  
"We've found your movies," said Kitty, moving a bishop. "I think we're warned."  
"Oh *dear*," said Sara. "All of them?"  
"Kurt said they were masterpieces in schlock parody. A bunch of us had a movie marathon. Priceless stuff, girl. 'You just love me for my braaaaiiiinnnnsss...' the whole room was ROFLTAO[1]."  
"I *said* it was an immortal line," Sara considered the board. "Are you distracting me from a check in five?"  
"No, I'm making pleasant conversation. And you're sick, so I'm letting you win."  
"Excuses, excuses."  
Kitty poked out her tongue. "Anyway, we're driving Scooter-boy nuts by quoting bits of dialogue out of context. All freakin' day. So far, the STFU count is up to twenty."  
"You really should ease up on the poor man. He's recently bereaved."  
"That's no excuse for him being an asshole."  
Sara moved a castle. "If you saw *your* best-beloved near-fatally attacked by someone... someone who turned up in the tow of a presumed innocent who happened to claim they were a changed individual - would *you* believe?"  
Kitty sighed. "Damnit... quit taking his side."  
"It isn't about sides, dear. It's about perception. About the way people see things. Add to the existing predicament the fact that our age difference makes things... difficult... and you have the whole can of worms."  
Kitty rolled her eyes. "Geez. Back in the middle ages, girls of twelve were marrying guys of thirty and nobody said *anything*. It's the way things *worked* back then. Hell, old rich guys marry barely-legal twigs after abandoning their *real* family and nobody says a thing."  
"Perhaps it's the fact that he's an old *poor* guy and the twig in question is both affluent and his first love?"  
"Now *that's* a theory to put up for debate," Kitty laughed. "Age and affluence versus allowable coupling choices."  
"Certainly one to hash out into social math," said Sara. "Your move, dear."  
"I know. I'm trying to put it off."

[1] Pronounced row-ful-tay-oh, and short for Rolling On (the) Floor Laughing Their Arses Off.

~

"...no, I gave the *peasant* the pellet with the poison... bwee-heeheeheehee..."  
Scott rolled his eyes and tried to ignore it as he strolled with Professor Xavier through the corridors of his institute. Well, to be more correct, he strolled and the Professor pioloted his chair from one place to another. It didn't help that they were keeping tabs on the number of times he told them to knock it off[1].  
"Silly season seems remarkably focussed, this year," noted the Professor.  
"They're punishing me for the deal," he said. "Kurt and Emilia's lessons on how to read people are kicking in *fast*... they know exactly where the line is."  
"...don't you listen to the song?[2] Now look what you've done - untold evil everywhere! Heheheheheh..."  
"And some of them are balancing on it," said Charles. His mouth still quirked in a smile that wasn't strictly allowed. "Did they put your room back the way it was?"  
"More or less," Scott blushed, deciding to omit their addition of Inflatable Ingrid[3] to his bed.  
"I'm not cleaning *that* up for you, young man."  
"Aaaw, *maa-aaaaa*..."  
The two students ran giggling away while Scott rubbed at the incipient migrane. "On the plus side, they're exhibiting working knowledge of strategic planning, precision strikes, psychological warfare..."  
"Yes. You've found me. Meep. Meep... hahahahaha..."  
"Will you kids knock it the heck off?" Scott bellowed.  
"Twenty-five!"  
"Twenty-five on the tab!"  
"Twenty-five!"  
"Twenty-five, *yay*!"  
Scott winced. He'd sworn he'd never yell at them again, and he swore so anew, now. "They're really *fine-tuning* the psychological warfare..."  
The Professor was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "When I warned you that you'd come to regret your decision, this wasn't precisely what I pictured."  
"There's definitely plenty of damage, sir," said Scott.  
"Damage?" queried the telepath. "Scott, what you're dealing with is fallout. Miscellaneous flack from the very edge of the problem."  
"But... nothing else has been happening..."  
"Look again," said the Professor. "Sara's seizures have been more frequent, this week, haven't they?"  
Scott stopped cold. Her seizures, he knew, were caused by stress. Usually, the stress of unexpected kindness working against her anticipation of unpleasantness in her immediate environment. However, other stresses could work to trigger off a fit. The meditation regime had helped, true... but there *were* more of them. Moments when she grew close to what the Professor called a fatal break.  
One of them had been when she'd panicked in front of him... before he'd started the chain of events that lead to her setting herself on fire.  
And what had the girl panicked over?  
The fate of Toynbee... and whether or not they'd ever be allowed to share the same air again.

[1] And anyone who knows what STFU stands for will know that Scooter self-bowdlerises.  
[2] There's a sorta swing-esque song called _Don't Go In the Basement_ which I mean to make a clip someday ;) [And it's not the version by Oingo Boingo]  
[3] Side-fling to _Red Dwarf_

~

"Sara! *Hey*!"  
"Back in the land of the living!"  
"How's the burns?"  
Sara smiled. Therapy *had* to be working. This sort of warm welcome used to have her flinching in anticipation. Or twitching. Or both. The fact that she could smile back and come up with a witty reply was a huge leap forward. "It hurts and stings," she said. "Hence the supremely loose mega-shirt."  
"You could fit three of you in that thing."  
"What the heck is a thy-la-kine, anyway?"  
"It's pronounced 'thy-la-seen' with a soft th'th. Better known as the Tasmanian Tiger."  
"Aren't they extinct?"  
"Oh, there's been progress in bringing them back," Sara breezed. "Last I heard, they *nearly* had a viable foetus[1]. It's one of my not-quite scams."  
"A scam?" said Piotr. "I thought you were a *good* girl."  
"Once upon a time, when I was three," Sara grinned. "This one kind-of started as research into how gullible people were... and then it started making an immense profit, so... I legally donate a percentage of the proceeds towards the thylacine projects that are making the most progress."  
"But - *free* the thylacine?" said Avery.  
"That's the gullability part." Sara shrugged as much as she was able to. "I figured most Americans wouldn't know a thing about anything beyond their own stomping grounds, so..."  
"You picked an obscure place with an extinct critter to 'free'," Amy rolled her eyes.  
"The Dodo was completely out, of course. It's *famous* for being extinct." Sara gestured at tossing the idea out of the window. "But our dear friend the marsupial 'tiger' has *just* enough cryptozoological credit on its side that I had volunteers willing to buy nature reserves for them."  
"Yike," said Bobby.  
"I know some people you could sell those shirts to," said Sam.  
"I'm still doing a roaring trade... though some people confess to buying it for the irony factor - and being asked by strangers about how they can contribute."  
"*Oy*..." said Kitty.  
Rogue considered all this. "Damnit... now *I* want one."  
"Twenty bucks. No friendsies discounts."  
"It's still worth it."

Mort sighed. So far, he'd narrowly avoided self-injury in the kitchens, the laundry *and* the feeder bins. On the average of twice every hour.  
Sara'd never forgive him if *he* wound up bruised, burned, battered or broken so close to the finish line.  
Day four was nearly over.  
Three more days.  
He could last three more days.  
Especially after he'd half-inched[2] one of her shirts from the laundry and concealed it under his pillow. All right. So *maybe* keeping a girl's clothes to sniff wasn't exactly the first word in chivalry... but it helped him keep *sane*. It gave him an anchor.  
It helped him *sleep*.  
He was wearing down to a frazzle and it seemed everyone knew it. They passed on news, quotable quotes, notes, anecdotes... every little snippet they could glean. All so he could relax just a little bit and stay saner for a few minutes longer.  
Mort, during his free time, gained his old strength and agility back in the gym. He sparred against the training tree[3] and any shadow that he spotted. He threw himself into routines old and new.  
Had to wear out the body to prevent the mind from whirring off into unwelcome tangents.  
He was probably in better fighting form than he'd ever been in before. Better, even, than his peak under the constant jibes and taunts of Magneto. Mort didn't care what the old fart thought of him now. The old fart had certainly forgotten about *him*.  
Amazing how deep a Dragon's claws could dig... even after escape.  
A splintering crack woke him up from the rythm of the dance. Fuck. He'd just broken one of the knobs off the training tree. He'd have to pay for that.  
Double fuck. Splinters in his hand and wrist.  
Mort took himself to the nearest bin and began plucking wood out of his wounds, staving off his usual pain response until he was sure he was clean of all infection vectors.  
"Impressive," said Logan. "You should be teachin'."  
"Ain't no sensei," said Mort. "I just dance." Ooze and blood mixed, dried in the air he blew over the area. Set itself into an interesting scab. "And I ain't teachin' the way I fuckin' learned."  
Logan just shrugged. "So teach in a better way. Teach 'em to survive."  
Mort gave the man a glare. "Sure that's a good idea? I know some 'survival skills' that'd put me straight back in the fuckin' basement."  
"Lockpicking? Escapology? Street-fighting?"  
"All of the above *and* 'other'," said Mort. Had he dripped on the floor? No. Less work for later.  
"Good. Kids'll need that and then some." Logan grinned. "It's all well and good having a discipline, an' knowin' the rules... but when it gets down to the dirt, the dirt don't care."  
"Too bloody right," said Mort. He thought about it. Considered the possibility. Professor Toynbee... learned applicator of Surviving Shit 101. Well... maybe with a fancier name. "Scooter know about this?"  
"He thought it was an idea."  
But not necessarily a *good* idea, or one with moral merit. Mort grinned. "When do I start?"

[1] Like I said, 'not-too-distant future'... and someone's *bound* to have been doing *something*.  
[2] Cockney rhyming slang. Half-inched = pinched = stolen.  
[3] That wooden post thingy with projections poking out of it. Used in some martial-arts movies. If anyone has the official name, I'd be glad to have it.

~

December 9.

"...sing sing a song, sing a so-oonnng... Sing."  
Mort sighed with relief and let go of the ceiling, falling to the bed and grinning like a maniac. She sounded in fine voice, today.  
And after getting through *this* day, there was just the tenth and the eleventh before her birthday... and their shared freedom.  
Or something close enough to it.  
Like it or not, Sara would be sharing an hour a day with him, come the new year. Alas, the proviso was that he actually *taught*. Couldn't waste an hour of the kids' time making goo-goo eyes at his girlfriend. And he had to be fair... and - Jesus - it was going to be fucking tougher than he thought.  
He could do it. Just for a glimpse of her. For the faint odour of lilac.  
And, he had to admit it, to piss Summers right off.

Sara put the robe on and answered the door. "Good morning," she said to Mr Summers.  
"Could you get dressed for the winter, please?" he said. "After I visit Jean, I have a job you might be interested in."  
"Oh?"  
"Radio for the blind needs voice workers for their productions of books on tape... and CD books." He smirked. "And I've heard that you're scarily accurate."  
"Damn straight I am," she said in his voice.  
He pointed her towards her wardrobe. "Get dressed."  
"Yes *sir*, Mr Scooter, sir." She saluted, grabbed a handful of gear, and vanished behind a set of bookshelves. "Am I auditioning today, or are we working on a production?"  
"That depends on how long the audition's going to run for," he said. "You'll probably meet the rest of the Voices anyway."  
"Voices in the Dark?" Sara guessed. "I'll be working with *them*? Oooh, I'm coming over all fangirl..."  
"It'll probably be bit parts at the start," he soothed. "Understudying, and so forth. I -uh- Irunthesoundeffects..."  
"Under the pseaudonym S.S. Soundmachine, I know." Dressed now, she reappeared with a grin. "Own several editions."  
"...meep..." he sighed, blush rising over his face. "Don't tell anyone else? I'd never live it down."  
Mischief curled her a smile. "I'll wait until 'mister Scooter' wears off at the very least."  
"...it's going to be a looonnnng year..."

~

The Voices recorded early in the morning, before the station/studio began its "proper" business of the day. Like most radio stations, very little attention was paid to the exterior, making it look like a big, brick box in the middle of the snow.  
Sara, bound and swaddled with various layers of clothing, waddled after Scott into the inside. Even inside, it was plain. Businesslike. Sara knew that all the money went to the inside of the studios. The sound baffling, the equipment, the mixer boards, the state-of-the-art recording equipment... it was all they needed to produce anything from   
music to another world.  
There were already people in the studio. Studio 3. Scott breezed in without a care, picked up his copy of the script, and went instantly to the array of bizarre equipment in the back designed for foley work.  
"Not a lot for me today," he said.  
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," teased a pleasant woman who looked like she could play Everyman's Mom. Her voice, however, had harmonics that Sara recognised from the Voices' reading of _Equal Rites_.  
"Granny Weatherwax," Sara squeaked. "You played Granny Weatherwax in your production of _Equal Rites_."  
"Scott...?" said EveryMom. "Who *have* you bought with you?"  
Sara could feel the blush fighting for dominance already. She shed the big coat so she could turf the mittens so she could pull aside the scarf.  
And while this flurry was going on, Scott introduced her. "Beth, this is Sara. She's one of my students."  
"Sara Louise Adrien," said Sara, offering her free hand. "Zero to complete fangirl in sixty seconds."  
"Good grief, you're completely green." Beth shook her hand anyway.  
"I like to think of myself as more blue-ish."  
The man crawling on the floor, whom Sara had assumed was a gaffer or some other kind of technician, surfaced from his inspection of the wires and cables. "And what's a nice blue-ish girl like you doing in a place like this?"  
"Ba-dum-bum," said Beth.  
"Yes! Finally! Someone took the straight line," Sara laughed as she reached for his hand. "Archchancelor[1] Ridcully?"  
"By daylight, known as Rick," said Rick. He looked more appropriate for a Santa Claus role than yelling at the Bursar. "Also, if you put me in an echo chamber, I DO A PRETTY DECENT DEATH."  
"James Earl Jones would be proud," Sara found a place to put her extra wrappings and divested herself of them.  
"This might seem a smidge rude, but... exactly how much is *padding*?"  
"Cold weather and I don't get along," said Sara. "Therefore, we erred on the side of paranoia when it came to keeping me warm."  
"I'll say," said Beth. "Were it not for the noxious colours, you could have matched the Pillsbury Doughboy."  
"I don't knock what works," Sara said. Galoshes off, extra-thick snow pants off, three layers of cardigans and a hoodie, and she was down to what normally passed for everyday wear. Well. Except for the extra-thick socks.  
"Yike," said Rick. "You look so much taller when you're thin."  
"All right," said the director, "Step up to the mike, honey, and let's hear all your voices."  
"All of them?" said Sara.  
"Yeah, sure. How long could it take?"  
Famous last words.

Mort had put on a singlet for the sparring session. Better that than having a bunch of kids pondering his scars, anyway. Let them look at the relatively minor wounds that marched up and down his arms and legs as he mock-fought with Callisto. Let them wonder why he wore weights on his wrists and ankles.  
Meanwhile, he could focus on the dance.  
Callisto had a very low amount of body fat. Were it not for the sports top and the bun, she would have been very easy to mistake for a male.  
It made it easier for him, given his lifelong Thing about attacking pretty girls. But then, so did Callisto's warning that she'd neither give nor take any quarter.  
And there were moments when... he flashed back to training under Sabie and Mystique. Sabie laughing at him because he'd been ogling Mystique's breasts and not paying attention to her hands or feet... and paid the price.  
He'd still rather flirt. Impress and woo... but he *knew* to at least defend himself. And more, if they were serious.  
Callisto was serious. She was faster, stronger and more capable than the average human. She also had a killer instinct and a knowledge of when he was slipping and going easy on her.  
He paid the price in bruises often enough, early on, to not go easy on her, now.  
The students, lined up to watch, were learning, too. They were learning that, when it came to real combat, rules were only for those with short survival expectancies.  
"Enough," said Logan. "Break."  
They backed off, settled whatever hackles had been raised, and bowed. Mort stepped off the mat and into the long coat that stopped him getting a chill, then guzzled tepid gatorade as if his life depended on it. Every sense was zinging with awareness, as were his muscles and new bruises. He was sweaty, unkempt, battered and about ready to fall over.  
And he felt like a million dollars.  
Callisto came up for air from her own bottle of dissolved salts and sugar. "That," she panted, "was one hell of a fight."  
"I aim t' please," he smirked.  
"Makes me wonder what you'd do with the weights off."  
"Kick your arse three ways from Sunday, of course," he said. "The weights make it more even."  
"Must start training with weights, then," said Callisto.  
"It'd still be unfair." To prove his point, Mort punched up an expendable block, made to be broken by those with a specific strength level. He removed his ankle-weights and neatly cracked it in two with a rapid kick.  
"...fuck *me*..." whispered Callisto.  
"Can't. Already taken," he grinned, putting the weights back on and sending the block back to be recycled. "Besides, Logan'd have my shredded bollocks with ice cream if I even tried to accept."  
Callisto laughed at that. Raucously enough to distract the sparring teams now out on the mats. "He's not *that* serious."  
"Yeh? Five quid says he fucks 'imself up if you kiss him on the moosh."  
"You're on," she said. She sauntered around the class, right up to Logan and laid one square on his lips. The man was so alarmed his claws sprang out - right through one of his thighs.  
Callisto stared at Mort as if to say, _You fucking rat bastard..._  
Mort just smiled and waggled his fingers at her. Then, to add arse to insult, mouthed, "Kiss it better."  
Callisto, for the first time in his memory, went bright red.  
Oh yeah. The school was going to have fun with *these* two.

[1] I'm sure I've screwed up the spelling, here. Too lazy to look it up.

~

Kitty watched the securicam feeds as Scott came back with Sara. The latter of the two was unrecognisable under the sheer volume of warm clothing, which showed that he did care about her continued health.  
"Now," she murmured, "let's see if I'm *right*..."  
Ororo, lurking over her left shoulder, stared intensely at the main screen as Kitty flipped views. "I still don't think your theory has much merit, Kitten[1]."  
"So put twenty bucks on it," she said, watching the car pull into the garage. "Heeere we go-o..."  
The main display followed Sara. There was even a little status screen with the local temperature.  
Sure enough, in the mud room, Sara divested herself of nearly all layers of warm gear. She even got rid of the extra-woolly socks and put some loafers on. Either they clicked on the floors or Sara was in a good mood, because she started tapdancing.  
And the minute she got rid of that last coat... Sara started missing mishaps. With grace and style, even.  
Watching Scott flinch at every near miss was freaking hillarious.  
Scott eventually stopped her, though. Kitty turned up the sound and subtly lowered the temperature by a few degrees.  
"What is *with* you?" he said. "Normally you can't go five steps without stubbing a toe or something, and today - you just missed five breakables and two pitfalls without even *trying*..."  
"Must be a good luck day," Sara shrugged. She rubbed her arms and put on her coat. "And why not? I feeeeeel *goooooooood*." Whack. Elbow straight into banister.  
"*HA*!" Kitty yawped with glee, and dove out into the hall. "I knew it! I *knew* it!"  
"Pardon?" said Sara.  
"What?" said Scott.  
"It's your skin!" Kitty almost danced with glee. "When you're all rugged up, you're just about walking around *blindfolded*! Just three more degrees and you'll be almost accident-proof."  
Scott absorbed her rapid-fire babble. "You have *got* to be kidding me."

[1] Ororo keeps calling Kitty 'Kitten' in the comics ^_^

~

Sara was still rubbing her dinged elbow. "I'm... *blindfolded*?"  
"Effectively," Kitty allowed. "When you're not -uh- paying attention, your subconscious takes over navigation and you just can't *do* that when over ninety percent of you is covered up." A shrug. "Guess your skin's visual acuity isn't all that high."  
Sara giggled. "I can just imagine *that* eye test... 'now cover *both* your eyes and try to read the second line'..."  
"So," said Mr Summers, "all I have to do is raise the standby temperature by three degrees and no more mishaps?"  
"It wouldn't hurt to keep the bodyguard," said Sara. "Belt and braces... plus I have this thing of turning corners into closed doors, walking into oncoming traffic, finding breakables the hard way..."  
"We *know*," said Mr Summers. It was the voice of patience lost over many a near-accident.  
"On the plus side, I tend to deflect those itty bitty fragments that are really hard to spot in a new wound..."  
"Sara..." warned Kitty.  
"I know. I'm not helping."  
"Will you two girls be okay from here?"  
"An oh-so-subtle way of asking if you're next on the watcher-roster," translated Sara.  
Kitty laughed. "Hi. I'm Katherine and I'll be doing my damndest to keep you away from injury this morning..."  
"Charmed, I'm sure," Sara grinned. "Shall we do horrendous things to diets with a waffle iron?"  
"Ooo! Yes, please!"

Ororo watched them go as she approached Scott. "That was an interesting denoument."  
"Blindfolded," said Scott. "Huh."  
"Should we batten down the hatches or just step into a nook?"  
"Hm?"  
"Whenever Sara starts cooking, word gets around."  
"Oh. *Stampede*..." he sidled towards a handy wall. "I keep thinking we should enlist Sara for the obligatory Yuletide party, but I keep having these visions of trying to get her *out* of the big kitchen."  
Ororo laughed. "On the other hand, it would give her a task to perform..."  
"In the middle of all those sharp objects?"  
Now she winced. "And the mashing and mincing ones, too..."  
"Though I can't recall the last time Sara hurt herself in *kitchen*..."  
"Must be the heat," said Ororo. "No coat and less accidents." She shook her head. "Why didn't we see it before?"  
"Hidden in plain sight?"  
Delicious smells wafted their way. Ororo started counting under her breath.  
{Bamf!} "Want me to snag you some, liebchen?"  
"Five seconds," she said, "Are you feeling ill?"  
"I was asleep," defended the blue elf. "Now, should I grab a stack and eat them in front of you, or...?"  
"Yes, I would love some."  
"Maybe we could take them back to back to bed, ja?"  
Scott matched his shades. "Do you two mind not saying things like that in the halls?"  
"You're no fun," grumbled Kurt. {Bamf!}  
And from the kitchen, "They're still *cooking*, Mr Wagner..."  
"What is this, over-the-horizon snack radar?"  
Ororo laughed. Once again, Kitty had nailed it.

~

Mort could smell her cooking, and the cinnamon was working its magic. And nutmeg. He moaned under his breath. He could smell the sugars caramelizing.  
O God...  
Sara and pastry manufacture were an *experience*. People put on pounds just watching the treats come out of the oven.  
It was more than an effort of will to hang back. It took supreme measures just to stay where he was. Those supreme measures currently involved clinging with all his might to a corner and repeating the words, "Remember the deal," over and over.  
His grip was slipping.  
"Mercy dash," announced Kitty's voice. Right next to him.  
He had to back up to focus. "You woh?"  
She presented a covered platter. "Sara managed to defend these for you. Hot off the press, as it were. She says she's sure you'd be missed in the feeding frenzy, but it's best not to chance it."  
Mort lifted the cover. She'd spelled out 'love you' in cookies. "Thanks," he said. He inhaled deeply. Oh yeah. That was the stuff.  
"Better take 'em away from here before some of the smaller kids try to mob you for handouts," Kitty advised. "I gotta get back to the mayhem."  
"Tell Sara I said to watch out for 'erself."  
"Roger dodger," and Kitty was gone back through the wall from whence she came.  
It was way easier to walk away from the kitchen, now. He knew where she was. He knew she was safe. And more importantly, he had a pile of her culinary art to cram his belly with until he made himself sick.  
Even with the forced absence, life was good.

~

Sara was in her element. Who could have guessed that she was a feeder? And so many people eager to accept her offerings... it never used to be like this.  
Cooking by herself was something - covert. Hidden under the veil of the help and discretely delivered to mother so that the woman never knew Sara was even remotely involved.  
She even delivered Bake Sale donations anonymously. All because of the one time she *did* use her name and her offering was used callously as a football by jeering jocks.  
They'd never make her cry[1].  
Sara adjusted her behaviour to suit, up to and including turning her emotions off at the daily locker rat, but she never displayed her inner reactions to her victimisation. Never. She'd boxed it up and packed it away.  
And Sara got used to the idea that nobody would ever want any part of her.  
That had changed with Mort. After an initial bout of suspicion, he was eager and willing to gladly engulf any culinary offering she could scrape together.  
Which encouraged her to bake cookies for the kids.  
Who, in turn, made their Moms seek her recipes.  
Which turned out to be phenominally popular.  
Sara found a unique and almost perverse joy in making treat-food, and a near unholy delight in watching people enjoy what she'd made. People *enjoyed* her.  
It had bought on fits in the past, but not any more. Just the odd twitch or tic as her mind battled with two conflicting ideas.  
Maybe...  
Just *maybe*...  
All the things she'd been told... all the conclusions she'd reached... had originated with little-minded people who had no better reason to help her along her darkened path than that she didn't *look* as nice as they did.  
And in this place - there were no appearances.  
None to keep. None to judge by. No vanity. No peer system beyond ideals that ultimately did not require a physique.  
Sara felt like a fish discovering clean water after living in an almost-perpetual filth.  
For the first time in forever, she began to hum without feeling ashamed of herself for humming.  
Even with the absence of Mort... life was getting good.

[1] _Cat Ballou_ side-fling ^_^

~

Sara was blushing, since she'd exhausted the kitchen's supplies of ingredients, but she felt like a million dollars anyway. Everything was, as the show tune said, coming up roses.  
A tic reminded her that she still had some emotional unloading to go through before she was *completely* healed. Apparently, her dark side rather expected something bad to happen to her, now.  
Sara whispered her mantra as she skipped through the halls. Her body wanted to dance...  
_Well... why *not*?_ They had a dance studio in here. Nobody would care a fig if she was too tall and gangly to dance properly. And, since Mr Wagner had decided to join her shadow, she hardly had to worry about seven years' bad luck[1].  
Purpose behind her direction, Sara jogged up to her room, found something brief-but-passable and snagged some of her favourite bootlegs.  
There was a sound system in the studio, and someone had made sure it was bootleg-friendly. No doubt, Kitty had done it. Or one of the technomages with little better to do.  
Regardless, it took to her personal tune storage unit like an amphibious avian to dihidrogen monoxide.  
Sara closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to fret that anyone was there to see her knees, and waited for the randomiser to pick a tune.

Ororo found them some time later, practicing a tango. Her resultant flare of envy was brief, owing to the letcherous smirk Kurt shot her when he sensed her presence. Sara's face was almost scarily blank. A sign she was concentrating on the inside, not the outside.  
The song ended with a classic pose, which Sara broke with a deep blush.  
"Eep!" Sara said upon spotting Ororo.  
"It's all right," soothed Kurt. "Ororo also teaches dance."  
"Serendipity," chirped Sara.  
_Darn that economy mode._ "Er... Pardon?"  
"If it isn't too much to ask, perhaps the two of you can make sure Mr Toynbee can dance? I rather plan on -er- sharing the floor with him at some stage. At my party."  
Famous last words, indeed.  
Sara, able to learn quickly and absorb information at a rapid rate, had only a glancing concept of what it was like for other people to learn. She'd left them with only three days to teach a fighter and a thief how to fake it on the dance floor.  
It took most people a few minutes to learn how to fake a Samba. That was easy enough. It was the *other*, rather ecclectic, music in her collection that gave them trouble.  
Toynbee got the 'sweats' whenever he touched Ororo, and considered dancing with Kurt to be 'poofy'.  
"I could wear a wig," suggested the teleporter. "I'm told I look fabulous in a cocktail dress[2]..."  
"And it takes a *very* confident man to say that," joked Ororo, still trying to massage feeling back into her hand.  
Mort had fallen into a funk. "Ah, fuck yer both," he mumbled.  
"Was? Don't you *want* to dance?"  
"*Yeh*... with *Sara*."  
"You can't learn on the dance floor," said Ororo. "Especially something as complex as a tango."  
Mort went a very strange colour when he blushed. "Sharrup," he muttered.  
Kurt made a little 'back off' gesture. "Is it something else?"  
"I got a Thing, awrigh'?"  
"Ah. I see. Pretty girls... they used to make fun?"  
"...worse."  
"We will not make fun," he said. "Sara... *wants* this. *She* will not make fun. If you want - we can lock the door and close the windows. No-one can see to laugh, ja? And I promise you - you *will* be graceful."  
Glare. "An' how d'you promise that, cocky?"  
"I've seen you fight." Kurt smiled. "Sparring takes as much co-operation as a dance. It has a beat... you have to read your partner... The only difference is in the intent."  
"If it helps," offered Ororo. "You can close your eyes and pretend I'm Sara."  
"Can't."  
"Too short?"  
"Y' don't smell like lilac."

[1] Dance studios contain lots and lots of mirrors. Remember Sara's reputation with breakables? Yeah.  
[2] Side-fling to one of the early ish's of _Excalibur_ in which Nighty somehow wound up in drag...

~

"Lilac?"  
"Lilac."  
Ororo stared with utter confusion at the man, then looked to Kurt. "*Lilac*..."  
"Don't look at me," he said. "I'm not in the habit of sniffing ladies who aren't my girlfriend."  
"Maybe Logan...?"  
"Logan's busy hiding from Callisto... and vice versa." Kurt pondered. "There's always Rahne... she can verify any nose news."  
"That still doesn't solve the problem at hand."  
Kurt got a wicked grin. "Ready for some creative use of the danger room, liebe?"

"Oh look, a wolverine in the wainscotting[1]."  
"Tallwater, ya got five seconds to piss off, okay?"  
"Sorry, needs must," she flourished a piece of paper. "I need to go shopping for party supplies and you're the only person who can drive a big enough truck."  
Logan partially unfurled from his hiding place. "*Truck*?"  
"One, *all* of the Guthries are coming, and that's instantly fourteen people. Two, we already know what happens when I start making tasty treats. I need to allow for natural attrition. Three, it turns out I have more friends than I thought possible. Hence the truck."  
He emerged cautiously, checking the air and scanning up and down the hallways. "And Xavier okayed this?"  
"After my hazelnut praline muffins?"  
"*Riiiiiiigggghhhht*...." he started dragging her towards the car pool.  
"Besides, I know this place that does cheap bulk stuff and I know how to get discounts on top of that, so--"  
"Tallwater?"  
"Yeah?"  
"How the hell did you *find* me?"  
"Oh, that was easy. You positively *reek* of cigars."

[1] As opposed to a mouse ;)

~

"What do you think?"  
Sam considered her attire. "It isn't pink."  
It was, in fact, a rather nice shade of purple[1]. A colour 'ladies' were never supposed to wear. It was casual enough for a birthday party, and far, *far* removed from Jaquelline's usual power suit style.  
"Is it *enough*?" she said, considering her own reflection. "I want to make enough of a visual impression to let her really *know* I've changed. I don't think I should wear my hair up. It's too... old-me."  
"You could always dye it green," he said.  
Jaquelline startled. "*Sam*..."  
He laughed. "You're right. It wouldn't 'go'."  
She turned back to her reflection. "Now *vermillion*..."  
"Darling, we're not aiming to scare the other mundanes, now."  
"Is that what they call us?"  
"Terms vary. 'Flatscan' is the nasty one. 'Norms' is mostly-acceptable. Sara came up with 'mundanes' for the literary implications."  
"Oh yes. Those Xanth books..." Jaquelline fiddled with her hair, trying varying ways of holding parts of it. "Now I've left the old shell behind, I... I want to *read* them. See what my own Mommy-dearest had against them."  
"Pagan imagery is my best guess," said Sam. He snuck up behind her and slid her into his arms. "Wave a centaur at some people and they just go nuts." Her scent drew him into her neck, where he kissed her.  
Jaquelline froze. "You haven't kissed me like that since..."  
"A long time ago," he said. "I thought you needed breathing space and..." he sighed, looking at her via the mirror. "I inched away because I couldn't stand seeing you and Sara fight."  
"I missed you," she said.  
"Missed you too."  
Jaquelline wriggled free enough to secure a tissue and daubed at her eyes. "We made so many mistakes. How could she forgive us?"  
Sam pondered that question, staring into infinity until he found it. "Gradually, I would think."  
"Step at a time, eh?"  
"Baby steps," Sam agreed. "And we can't control the path."

The scooter-trolley, as it turned out, was for the "light and small stuff". The rest of it - intimidatingly large boxes, all - wound up as numbers on her list.  
People who worked here knew Tallwater, and greeted her no matter what colour she was now. But then, according to *her*, she'd been shopping here with *makeup* tests on.  
It took a subjective eternity to wind through the catacomb-esque shelves and wind up at a checkout, where Tallwater ordered the boxes by number and introduced Logan as the truckdriver.  
"Little early for halloween plans," joked a young man of obviously mixed descent. He was the sort of guy who teenaged girls would hurl themselves at or write tons of angsty poetry over, since he bore all the best elements from both asian and african stock. But the body-speak was... off. "Or is there a movie in the works?"  
"Neither," said Tallwater. "This is me. One hundred percent."  
"Wow. When you go in for a makeover, you go in for a *makeover*, honey."  
Click.  
No wonder his body language was off. The guy was almost flamingly gay.  
"Logan? This is Steve. We help each other out."  
"Lots and lots," supplied Steve. "Wow. Zero to homophobic in less than twenty seconds. Relax, sweetie. I'm not into bears or furries."  
Tallwater laughed. "Don't be nasty, Stephen. The poor man has enough issues."  
"Aaaaawww..." Steve pouted. "I can't play?"  
"Claws back in, cat-boy. C'mon. Got a world-class workout for you out back."  
"Oh, that reminds me, the whole family's coming to the party. I can't stop them."  
"Yike. Good thing I allowed for that."  
Logan boggled as he followed. "You throwin' a party or a concert?"  
"Knowing me, possibly both. Steve here's the youngest of ten."  
"Most of them twins," supplied Steve. "And lots of them as fecund as Mom."  
"Steve swears he 'went gay' for environmental reasons."  
"TMI, Tallwater," Logan growled. "Can we get on with this?"  
"What? Can't us social outcasts gossip amongst ourselves any more?"  
"Tallwater..."  
"I know, I know. Quit giving you ulcers."

[1] There's a list going around in email that starts, "When I am old, I shall wear purple" and continues on through a lot of things that would embarrass someone who cares what other people think. I read that and ponder - why wait until you're old?

~

Rogue and Bobby were sharing a companionable dinner[1] in the kitchen when Logan stalked in. In a different universe, smoke would have been manifesting from his ears.  
They paused what they were doing to watch in amazement, wince, and try to *forget* what he just did with singular determination.  
"Wow," said Sara. "That's the first time I've seen someone sink an entire bottle of Maalox..."  
"What did you *do* to him?" Rogue accused.  
"Do? I just went shopping. Introduced him to some friends... *I* didn't happen to him, I swear. It was Steve. *He* happened to him."  
"Wait. Is this the Steve that was Carmen Miranda last Halloween?"  
"Yes. And that reminds me, Robert. We have unfinished business." Sara made a stern 'come hither' gesture. It brooked no opposition.  
Bobby shrugged and abandoned his meal. "What?"  
{Slap!} "Making light of a man's bereavement is crossing the line, Robert Barnabus[2] Drake. Cross it again and you will invoke my enginuity."  
Bobby touched the stinging memory of her slap. "...gotcha..."  
Rogue was slackjawed as Sara left the room. "How the hell did she find out your full name?"  
"How the hell did she find out about Inflatable Ingrid?" said Bobby.

Sara insinuated herself into the couch and joined the intro music. Most people in the room were used to her singing... even if she was currently singing like David Bowie.  
"You're still scary when you do that," said Kurt.  
"Pot, kettle, black," said Sara. "Can I help it if I love every inch of this movie? Well. Except for the cut'n'paste happy ending. Feh."  
"Don't throw popcorn at the hecklers?" Avery begged. "That sorta thing tends to escalate."  
"And waste good popcorn? Nay, sirrah, I shall throw the unpopped hulls if they get too injurious."  
"One, two, three, four. I declare a popcorn war."  
"Pleeeeeaaaaaase don't blow up another TV?"  
"Exploding TV's, he remembers. Last Wednesday's five dollars? Oy..."  
"Shaddup, shaddup, shaddup... it's starting."  
"Give me the child."  
"Why? I can help get you a new one. Hur, hur, hur..."  
"Keep it PG," warned Kurt.

[1] It's occurred to me that Xavier's would *have* to make sure the kids don't just snack out perpetually. By telepathic compulsion, if necessary. The kids would have the option of eating at the cafeteria or taking their meal somewhere - cosier...  
[2] Made up the middle name.

~

December 10.

Word had gone around that Sara had a morning job. Now, there were groups of kids clustered around radios and listening intently to see if they could hear her.  
Mort was suckered in, too. Just the hint of the idea of hearing her voice made him stick to the radio as if his life depended on it.  
Only the true nerds amongst them actually knew who was who amongst the voices.  
Scott read the news of the day. A group calling themselves the Funny Pages play-acted the comics. Music provided an interlude...  
And then some kiddies' show called _Cap'n Dogbiscuit_ turned rooms of kids into anguished wailers.  
"Relax," said Kitty. "The Voices come in and guest on this show. There's a passing chance we might still hear her."  
"Besides, producing a radio play based on a novel's like making a movie. Only with less props," said Rahne. "We probably won't hear her work on *that* job for a bit of a while."  
"And you know this because...?" prompted Jubes.  
"Sara talked my ears off. Did you know that the Cap'n on this show's the same dude who Narrates for the Voices?"  
"Good *grief*..." said Mort. "They sound nuthin' alike."  
"Ah. *There* you are, my good man," said an overstuffed voice. It instantly conjured the picture of a woman with plenty of rounded edges and a penchant for expensive tastes.  
"Sara..." breathed Mort.  
"What? Where?" said the Cap'n.  
The plot device for the following week - such as it was - was introduced in a mixture of exposition and jocular banter. Including fat jokes that really should have been put out to pasture.  
"How can you tell that's Sara?" boggled Evan. "It doesn't sound anything like her."  
"Voice-body mismatch?" suggested Kitty. "Who's the last person you'd think of as playing Lady Calamity?"  
"Okay..."  
"An' I cheat," said Mort. "Heard 'er doin' that voice for a flashtoon ages back."  
"I say we all put on pirate patches and wait for Scooter," said Amy. "When he comes in, we're all, 'AAAARRR, Cap'n'..."  
"Well... he *is* one of the swabbies..."  
"So's anybody with a coffee cup and free time at the station," said Kitty.  
"Aaaaanyway... we could still have a lot of fun with this, y'know?"  
"Like, instead of 'yes sir', we say, 'Ar'?"  
"Not constantly," said Mort. "Break it up with 'Aye's an' the odd 'hoo-ah' - just to get 'im off-balance."  
The kids stared at him in appreciation.  
"How do you know so much about annoyin' people?" said Rogue.  
"Luv, I used t' do it every day by breathin'."

~

"Well, *fudge*," said Sara. She knew this ceiling only too well. And the smell of the mats.  
Logan sighed. "C'mon, Tallwater... we both know you're holding back. Ya gotta learn this stuff and be able to *use* it."  
Sara untangled herself from the mat. "I don't like hurting my friends... and I'm not that strong, anyway."  
"You remember the lifting tests?" said Callisto.  
"Yes?"  
"You were hauling up forty pounds with one hand like you did it every day. Ambidexterously. With a little rep-work, we can have you bench-pressing the equivalent of a fully-grown, fit male in about... three months?"  
"Probably less," said Logan, not meeting Callisto's eyes. "Kid's got a regenerative factor. Muscles'd respond faster."  
Sara heard her neck crack with the force of the first tic. "I'm--" tic "I'm not--" tic "I'm not that strong..."  
"Mantra, kiddo," said Callisto. "Take it easy."  
Sara rattled the words through, letting her body do what it wanted while she focussed on the syllables. They worked to release the bad things inside her head. Safely. Without any kind of collateral damage.  
"Defensive moves," noted Logan. "The whole range."  
"You've seen her permanent record. You blame her?"  
Sara, trapped in the throes of her own defusing, was incapable of telling them she could still hear what was going on. It was so darn frustrating she had to cry.  
"Not her. Others that did this to 'er. Shitheads that probably don't remember an' don't care about th' damage done."  
"Pity the world doesn't let you shred someone for being a shithead," said Callisto.  
"*Yeah*."  
If she even thought of trying to talk, the seizure would get worse. Darn it. Darn it to heck. Only the words were keeping her on her feet. And even then, not steadily. Both Logan and Callisto were keeping close in case she fell. Ignoring their personal business to play guardian for her. She could 'see' them. Sense them flinching to catch her even as they spoke.  
The 'image' her mind saw from her skin was distorted and blurred, and Sara didn't have a clue how she *knew* which blur was which... but she did, and that should be enough.  
Sara lurched the wrong way, toppled, and was caught by the both of them. _Some unlikely cupid, I... have to throw a fit to get them to touch hands._  
Logan was the one with the gentle touch to her eyes, ridding them of the stinging water than now pooled there. Callisto, the deft touch at various pressure points that eased discomfort and lessened the more violent jerkings.  
Both hovered like a mother hen.  
At last, the seizure dwindled. Sara caught her breath and steadied the last vestiges of nervous tremula. "I can hear every word you say when I'm 'under', you know." She opened her eyes. Hello, familliar ceiling. "There simply *has* to be a better way to arrange things."

~

"You're right. We need a better tack."  
"Training tree?" suggested Logan. "Gets all the moves drilled an' no resemblance to a human."  
Sara pulled herself into a sitting position. "That *might* work, except I develop relationships with inanimate objects."  
"True, but inanimate objects don't feel pain." Callisto lead her to one of them. "And you could name it after someone you have an intense desire to hit..."  
"Piggy Stiye..." murmured Sara. "Oh, yes."  
"Shorthand..." warned Logan.  
"Complete and utter creep. James Cameron 'Piggy' Stiye. Did horrendous things to my psyche in my freshman year at high school. Practically ruined a perfectly nice dress... etcetera. Suffice to say if we met in the street I'd cheerfully kick his gonads up his windpipe."  
"Good," grinned Callisto. "Now watch how to beat the living snot out of 'Piggy', here..."

"I don't fucking *BELIEVE* this!"  
Mort held ice against his swollen ankle. "Given the way we've been goin'? Why not?"  
"There *is* more than enough empirical evidence, Mr Summers," said Sara. She was holding her arm extremely still while Hank delicately plucked sharp shreds of wood out of it.  
"You injured yourselves at *exactly*... the same... *TIME*. Under *GUARD*! How is this freaking *POSSIBLE*?"  
"In an infinite universe, all things are possible," quoted Sara. It didn't help that she quoted from an ancient television adaptation of _Journey to the West[1]_... or in the voice of the narrator. She returned to her normal voice. "I don't know about Mortimer, but I'm all a-flutter over the upcoming party. The finish line's in sight on the deal... and apparently I'm stronger than I think I am."  
"They're gonna have to build those things out of fuckin' vibranium," said Mort. "Did just the same thing to meself the other day."  
"Yes, but you *are* stronger than you look," said Sara. "Every time I see you, you're packing on definition, if not bulk."  
Scott headed off the conversation before it could get derailed. "Back on the *subject*?" he said. "If I didn't have eye-witnesses, I *swear* you two were pulling this shit on purpose."  
"You know, I *could* plausibly pratfall into something breakable and--"  
"Don't?" Mort begged. "Every time I hear about you comin' in here, I nearly shit meself sideways. Knowin' you're hurt? An' not bein' able to see you? It ties me guts up."  
"We'll kiss and make it better on my birthday," Sara's fingers clutched at air. An abortive attempt to hold his hand. "And I'll be sitting quietly, tomorrow. Just to make sure I don't do anything to myself."  
"Long as you're safe," said Mort. All the tension drained out of him nonetheless.

[1] English title, _Monkey!_ now availlable on DVD. Look it up. Much fun.

~

"Betsy's volunteered to be my intermediary in the kitchens... which is going to prove interesting on the remote how-to's. Everybody has the recipes, the ingredients, the Professor's delineated the party borders..."  
"Luv?"  
"Hmn?"  
"You're babbling."  
"I'm nervous," Sara smiled. Then winced as another fragment of wood came from her hand. "Our whole future's up in the air..." tic tic tic "Oh *fudge*... Doctor?"  
"Finishing up," Hank wound gauze over the pad over her wound. "Beware swelling, irritation and pain when moving."  
"Ashair elam ithenne onu..." Sara whispered, staring with ferocity at Hank's winding. She nodded, but all her effort was going towards keeping one hand still.  
Scott, hovering in the background, wanted to look away. This was his fault, in a way. Therefore, he had to observe.  
Mort twitched to hold Sara, then made himself cling to the table. His skin grew slick with healing goo and his face twisted in sympathy to her pain.  
Twenty-four more hours of this?  
_Fuck that,_ Scott thought. "Okay. *Fine*. You win."  
Sara, freed from her obligations to her doctor, was deep into degaussing.  
"You *woh*?" said Mort.  
"You *WIN*. The only time you two aren't in some kind of trouble is when you're together to look out for each other. Between the seizures, the accidents, the *pranks*... There was less chaos when I was just worried about you getting into Cerebro!"  
"An' you were wrong on that one, weren't ya?" Mort grinned.  
"Don't rub it in," said Scott.  
"So what now? I go back into that little cell?"  
"H'naurgh..." said Sara, flailing vaguely towards him.  
Hank caught her before she could fall. "Focus on the words," he advised.  
"No, you stay. You've proven yourself... she's proven - in need of a keeper. And I *know* I made a monumental mistake with this deal. You win. You can be together. With a chaperone."  
"Thankyou, Mister Summers," tic "but so close to the finish line?" tic "We could have made it one more day. Easy."  
"Sara?"  
"*I* want to prove this. I want to... complete the deal. Paid for in full as it were."  
Mort looked askance at her. "The doc give you any new pain meds, darlin'?"  
"I'm quite sure I'm sane, darling. I just-- I want to finish this."  
"*Why*?" chorused all the men present.  
Tic. "I've been removed from every educational facility I've ever walked into..." tic "In the process, many things were left undone. Just let me finish this one, very personal challenge? I want to do this. Please?"  
"One more day without ya?"  
"That which does not kill us, darling. I... I need to prove this to myself."  
Mort stared at her. "I love ya to bits but... yer fuckin' *nuts*, luv."  
"I know. I'm working on getting better."  
"One last hug?" pleaded Mort.

~

Sara, when deep in thought, looked to be more than slightly idiotic. Her tongue pushed out between her teeth, lying lax on the verge of dominating her lower lip. Her brows drew down and her eyes unfocussed. The occasional tic made it through the extreme relaxation that overtook her body, but they were tired things. Made dull from the exhertion of making an impact on her, they came out in almost lazy bursts.  
"No," said Sara, surfacing back into herself. The tics gave up and went away. "No last hugs. No farewell kisses."  
"But--"  
"Mortimer... if we need each other so desperately as to not be able to *survive*... perhaps we should examine our relationship. Intensely. If we can't be apart - how is being together going to work?"  
Mort was stricken. "I... I don't get it."  
"Every being needs time alone. Personal space. Even symbiotes do their own thing[1] sometimes. If we can't cope with being apart for a little while - how can we expect to take on life challenges where we'll *have* to be apart? How can we divide and conquer?"  
Mort looked at his hands. They ached to hold her, yes, but-- was he looking at things logically? *Could* he look at things logically? He wanted to be with her, to soak in every atom of the Sara experience, to love her and... and then what? Be hand in hand with her forever? *Everywhere*? Even when one of them had to shit? Or when their needs took them - however briefly - on seperate paths? Or when they needed to perform seperate tasks in order to achieve a common goal?  
Mort blinked. He'd never thought more than a few days in advance on his own. He never planned any future for himself, since whatever he wanted in the world got taken away. He just did what he was told and remained a good toad.  
Sara contemplated her entire life as easily as she contemplated a new book - but with less saliva[2]. Any new change in the Now spun possibilities and changed long-term plans with nary a shrug... but she *saw* it.  
It was dizzying to view that focus for the first time.  
"Awrigh'," he said. "One more day. I don't like it, but... it's gotta be done, yeh?"  
"Precisely," Sara smiled. "And if you'd just agreed without any kind of battle... that would have been an entirely different danger sign."  
"I'm still reservin' all gropin' rights once we're free an' clear."  
Sara laughed. "My *darling* Mortimer... I wouldn't have it any other way." She blew him a kiss. "Look after yourself?"  
He threw a Scout's salute. "Do me best. You do it too."  
"On my honour."  
Scott watched her leave with complete confusion. "What the fuck just happened?" he begged.  
Mort laughed at him. "Happens all the time around her," he breezed. "You get used to it."

[1] Sara's talking about macro-symbiotes. Not microscopic ones like mitochondria.  
[2] Sara Louise - extreme bibliophile ^_^

~

"You get used to it," Bobby quoted.  
"Yep," said Mort. He continued finessing the grubby gears and widgets with an air of complete relaxation. He was at home with machines. Machines were good to him. Mostly.  
"Are either of y'all clinically *insane*?" said Rogue. "You won. That should be it. Happily ever after an' all that."  
"Look at it this way, sweet'eart... We got nuthin' to worry about, now; so it's all down to proving we can exist as individuals, innit? Life'd be soddin' awkward if we 'ad t' be joined at the blimmin' hip."  
"But--"  
"Think about it, ducks. Y' can't do *everythin'* hand-in-hand."  
"But what do we do now?" said Bobby. "The whole reason behind the Scooter conspiracy is *over*."  
"Think up yer own diversions, then," said Mort. "Have some *fun*."  
"Y'all learn t' dance, yet?" said Rogue.  
Mort pulled himself out of the machinery so he could glare at her. "You'll find out on the twelfth, won't ya?"

Sniff.  
Sniff, sniff, snifffffff....  
Sara, in a comfortable tangle with a good book, said, "I see the one about the lilac has gone around."  
"Um."  
"Next time, dear, try to be more subtle." Sara bookmarked her page with her finger to tilt her head in order to face the sniffer. "Or ask. I don't mind if people ask."  
"Yeah, right," said Jamie. "Hi, I heard you smell like lilacs, can I have a sniff?" He snorted and rolled his eyes. "There'd either be a bloody pulp or a crowd scene by the time it was over."  
"Possibly with most people, but I'm my own rule book." Sara held out her free arm. "Go nuts."  
Gingerly, as if afraid she'd explode, he took her hand and a whiff. "*Whoah*... it *is* true. How'd you do it?"  
"The complicated explanation is that my bodily secretions are a little more tricky than everyday sweat. There's a lot more oil, for example, in order to keep the skin supple and flexible. The faint scent of lilac is a serendipitous byproduct. Or so Dr McCoy thinks."  
"That's weird," said Jamie.  
"Then define 'normal'."

~

"Is too."  
"Is not."  
"Is too."  
"Is not infinity."  
"Is *so* too," argued Jamie. "She let me have a sniff."  
"*EEEEUWWW*! You sniffed a *girl*?"  
"Well, I kinda *had* to. Think about it, doofus."  
"You're the doofus, doofus."  
"Well, *you're* a doofus times infinity."  
"Oh yeah?"  
"*Yeah*!"  
"*Yeah*?"  
Kurt interrupted before the argument between Jamie and Leech could escalate. "Kinder... kinder... indoor voices, ne? What's going on?"  
"Leech says I'm lying 'bout Sara smelling like lilacs just 'cause he doesn't have a nose and he can't smell."  
"Can *too*!"  
"Nuh-uh."  
"Yah-huh."  
"Nuh-uh."  
"Yah-huh."  
"Nuh-uh."  
"Yah-huh."  
"Nuh-uh."  
"Yah-huh."  
_Ah, such civilized debate..._ Kurt rolled his eyes as he gently discouraged them from shoving. "There's another way to solve this," he said. "Leech? Would you believe someone else?"  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"'Cause how come *I* can't smell it?"  
"You don't have a nose?" suggested Jamie.  
"I do *too*! It's just... really small."  
_And I volunteered to help here because...?_ "Some people just can't smell things," said Kurt. "Others *can*, it doesn't mean that some people don't smell *anything*. All right?"  
"But what if he *is* lying to me?" said Leech.  
"Am *not*..." protested Jamie.  
Kurt decided to head that one off at the pass. "Then you have to take it as a matter of faith. Just because *you* cannot sense something, it does not mean that it's not there."  
Leech pouted. He'd only been recently 'welcomed' to the Institute - read, dumped on the doorstep by authorities - and was still largely suspicious of anything he couldn't verify by himself. "...don' like being fibbed to," he muttered.  
"Well," said Kurt. "If it helps any... I only have other people's word about the lilacs, myself. If we're being lied to, we're in the same boat, ja?"  
"...guess."  
"And since *I* don't feel bad - why should *you* feel bad?"  
The logic evaded him and he shrugged. "Dunno."  
"Sehr gut," Kurt gave him a brotherly embrace. "Now. Why don't you two go find something you can both enjoy, ja?"

~

"Mort might object."  
Sara surfaced from the depths of her book. "Hmmm?" She looked up. Oh. Kurt. "Hi. 'Sup?"  
"Did you think about what would happen if he heard you're letting people sniff you?" teased the big blue elf.  
Sara grinned. "One, I have complete faith in Mortimer," she bookmarked her place with her finger again. "Two, I thought the best way to deal with rampant curiosity is to sate it. Three... the boy is *ten*. I'd think he'd lack the *wiring* to make the situation suspicious, anyway. And four - people are going to sniff, regardless. I might as well let them borrow my hand and get it done with."  
Kurt frowned as if he were dealing with complicated math. She'd been getting that expression a lot. "Some people... don't always think of such things as harmless, fraulein..."  
Sara blinked. "Oh, poot. I completely forgot about the Jerry Springer angle."  
"Uh... Was?"  
"The original salacious talk show. Every other week, there was at least one show featuring a stripper and her husband who wanted her to quit. Random lovers optional. I didn't think sniffing was a big deal... but the strippers had the same POV on the stripping. Although... mine's just 'I smell like lilacs, deal with it'... Mortimer might be upset."  
"I'm sorry," said Kurt. "I'm not following, much..."  
"I get that a lot. Could you do me a favour and get to Mortimer before the rumour mill does? Explain I thought it was harmless? Don't - don't wound him?"  
"But of course." {Bamf!}  
Sara sighed and bit her lip. What if she'd just done exactly the wrong thing?

~

{Bamf!}  
Mort coughed and gagged. "Ugh. Could ya not fuckin' do that upwind? ...auchkthpt..."  
"Etschuldigung... but I thought it would be better to get to you before the rumour mill did."  
He torqued the last bolt and wheeled himself out from under the car. "Eh? Who's Sara happened to, this time?"  
"Nein, it's about the smell of lilacs."  
Mort glared at him. "Drop the other soddin' boot, then."  
Kurt dropped into a crouch. "Sara's let one of the boys sniff her. Jamie. He's *ten*."  
Mort threw his head back - a bad idea when he was lying on a dolly[1] - and wailed, "It's not fuckin' *fair*!" He rubbed the back of his head. "Calm down, Morty... look at it all logical-like. Y' get t' sniff 'er day after tomorrow. An' all the other tomorrows you can get. So fuck 'em. Fuck 'em right in their ears. Who cares, righ'?"  
"Mort?" Kurt said.  
Mort opened his eyes. Blue-boy was looking confused. "'S awrigh'. We do this, sometimes," he soothed. "Got a long 'istory of bein' fucked over th' bad way." He steadied himself and managed to sit up. "We're not completely fractured. No' yet. Sara's been... *good*... at keepin' us together. I can keep us distracted... I can keep us busy... but *Sara*..." He sighed. _God, this is dangerous..._ But he had to say it to *someone* or he'd fucking explode. "She's got this... *way*. Every little crack just - heals."

Kurt blinked. _The way I've been attracting confessions, I may as well be a priest...[2]_ He'd heard of people 'cracking up' and of others 'going to pieces'... but he'd never thought he'd witness someone on the verge of doing both at once.  
"You've been hiding this for a very long time," he said. Nothing more than a statement of fact. A simple observation.  
"You *think*?" Mort slapped a paranoid hand over his mouth as his last, squawked word echoed a little in the otherwise empty room. He let the hand peel away from his face. "I *can't* let this out. You think stick-in-the-arse Scooter's gonna even let her within spit o' me if he knew?" panic now filled his eyes. "I can't stand thinkin' o' her hurtin' 'erself 'cause of some bugger-arsed, stupid-fuck thing we let slip an'--"  
"Mort," Kurt whispered.  
The sound of his name worked.  
"It's all right. I'm good at keeping secrets."  
Panic eased into vague worry. "It's not... dangerous, is it? When you know? When you can feel it happening?"  
"Your being aware is a good thing," said Kurt. "You should know when it gets dangerous. For you - or for anyone you love. And you know what you need to do to protect them."  
"...so scared of hurtin' 'er..."  
"And she sent me down here because she was scared of hurting *you*. That says something, ne?"  
"Yeh. We're both fuckin' nuts." He laughed. A sound so close to sobs that it hurt to hear it. "Out of everyone else... out of all th' people who could've been better for 'er... she goes an' picks on me. *Why*?"  
Kurt smiled at the echo of his own logic in Mort's words. "I've found that it's best not to ask. Just enjoy it."  
"Lie back an' think of England, eh?"  
"Or of how lucky you are... and how grateful... and how you could never take such a wonderful miracle for granted." A more devious smirk. "The ladies are completely into such things."  
A raised eyebrow. "An' you know everythin' about this... why?"  
Kurt tried and failed to look innocent. "Let's just say I never really got my official room..."

[1] What *is* the technical name for those wheelie-boards that mechanics use?  
[2] Side-fling to the worst possible decision in comic history *EVER*.

~

December 11

Jubes was fascinated. Sara was standing in an otherwise blank spot and cooking in and with thin air. Her eyes were closed shut and her demeanor was almost that of a sleepwalker, save for the muttered instructions that were clear and precise.  
She knew that, somewhere below in the big kitchen, Betsy was learning to cook through a mental link.  
_Damn, *I* could learn just by watching,_ she mused. She could clearly picture the utensils 'held' by Sara... and she was certainly picking up technique, if nothing else.  
It didn't even matter that her prime seat to view it was right next to Dead Fred - a decoration that had previously squicked her out to the ultimate degree.  
Sara smiled again. That shy little smile that implied warm thoughts.  
_Yo, Bets... Is she sneaking peeks at her SO?_  
_You bet your ass she is,_ Betsy 'replied'. _Now shut up, this is a tricky bit._

~

It was possibly the creepiest thing he'd witnessed in his life. There was Betsy. He *knew* Betsy. She did some modelling work when school allowed and was a very lovely lass who did exactly nothing for him... but when she made herself a puppet for Sara, moving *exactly* like her...  
It squicked him out, to use a Jubillee phrase.  
On one hand was the essence of Sara... yet held in a body that was decidedly *not* her. And on the other hand... it wasn't Sara at all.  
Just a puppet.  
Mort satisfied his need for distracting work by contributing to the organized chaos of the kitchens. He stuck to stuff that he knew he'd be careful with. Hot things, mostly. Which meant frequent trips to the fridges to rehydrate. Frequent passes by the Betsy-puppet, glimpsing at him in Sara's way... and the wrong-coloured eyes.  
Sara's words - and the wrong voice.  
Sara's moves in the wrong skin.  
And somewhere far away - her room, most likely - the real Sara, the pure Sara, was operating Betsy by remote and sneaking little peeks of him.  
So close, as they said, and yet so far.  
Even though it deeply disturbed him to be close to someone inhabited by her ghost , he couldn't truly stay away.  
Because there was *just* enough of her for him to picture her there.  
He could see her. But only if he didn't really look.

~

When a body assumes, it is said, they make an ass out of you and me. When Sara assumed, she made herself insignificant. For instance, Sara was assuming that many of her invitees would find themselves forced to make a choice between important business and her coming of age, and decide against the latter. Sara always assumed she was less important than anything or anyone.  
She was turning seventeen, today. Almost of age. One year away from legal freedom and adulthood.  
It should matter, according to Mortimer, to everyone who knew her.  
It mattered plenty to him...  
He tucked the most important gift in the world - at least to his secret heart and soul - into his coat pocket, straightened himself out and left his room. He was not the only one dressed up for the occasion. Even Kurt, the resident scarecrow, was looking suitably dapper in a suit with more tails than the one his god gave him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of throwing this thing open as an interactive fiction.
> 
> Since I'm busy writing novels, at the moment, I kinda need a little help to finish this thing. Should I wait until I'm free from a trilogy, or let y'all play with this?


End file.
